Read You Shouldn't Have to Say Goodbye Online
Authors: Patricia Hermes
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You Shouldn't Have to Say Goodbye
Praise for
You Shouldn't Have to Say Goodbye:
“A vivid, painful believability.” (recommended)
— The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books
“Hermes, author of this…uncompromisingly candid story,
makes the reader aware of life's priceless moments and the
need for courage.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A sensitive, touching account…”
—Instructor Magazine
You Shouldn't Have to Say Goodbye
is the winner
of the following awards:
Notable Children's Trade Book from the Children's Book Council
Hawaii Nene Award
California Young Reader Medal
Iowa Young Reader Medal
Michigan Young Reader Medal
©2008 by Patricia Hermes
Cover and internal design © 2008 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover photo © Corbis
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
www.sourcebooks.com
Originally published in 1982 by Harcourt Brace Jovanovitch, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hermes, Patricia.
You shouldn’t have to say good-bye / by Patricia Hermes.
p. cm.
Summary: During the autumn of the year, thirteen-year-old Sarah learns her mother is dying of cancer.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4022-1325-0 (alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-4022-1325-5 (alk. paper)
[1. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Death—Fiction. 3. Cancer—Fiction.] I. Title.
II. Title: You shouldn’t have to say good-bye. III. Title: You should not have to say goodbye.
PZ7.H4317Yo 2008
[Fic]—dc22
2008004548
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my children—and for Jessie
“W
HEN YOU WERE A LITTLE KID, DID YOU EVER WISH YOU could walk on the ceiling?” Robin had turned her head and was looking at me sideways, her huge eyes seeming even wider than usual, her dark hair streaming away from her face and down over the edge of the bed. We were both lying flat on our backs, and Robin stretched her legs and pointed her toes straight up. Perfect legs, rounded just right, not like mine. Sticks, I have. Thirteen-year-old sticks.
“Huh, Sarah, did you hear me?” Robin was still looking at me. “Did you ever want to walk on the ceiling?”
“Yup, still do. I imagine the whole house upside down, and I walk on the ceilings and pick my way over the light fixtures. Really wish I could do it.”
“Yeah, me too.” Robin bent her leg and examined her bare foot. “My toenails are gross.”
“What's the matter with them?”
“I don’t know. They’re lumpy-looking.”
“Poor baby,” I answered. Perfect Robin, little doll-like face, huge eyes, thick, shiny hair, and a figure, small and curvy at the same time. I couldn’t feel too sorry about her lumpy toenails.
“I mean it. They’re really gross.”
“Tough. Robin, you know you’re pretty. What's it feel like?”
“What!”
“You heard me. You must know you’re pretty. What does it feel like?”
“You know what?” Robin sat up and crossed her legs. “It's a pain. It really is. Only junior high, and the boys all bother me; and most of them are creeps. There are some boys I like, but they don’t come near me. Sometimes I think they’re scared.”
“But it must feel good too, knowing everybody thinks you’re cute. Doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Robin recrossed her legs, burying her feet with her lumpy toenails under her. She looked sad.
“What's the matter?”
“I don’t know.”
“Something.”
“Yeah.” She paused. “Did you know my mother was a runner-up for Miss America? Miss Arkansas, she was.”
“Honest? I didn’t know that!” I tried to picture Mrs. Harris, Robin's mother, but I couldn’t. I just had this vague memory of a little woman at the end of the dark hallway at Robin's house, her hair twisted up in a towel, some kind of dark stuff on her skin. I had seen her only that once, because we hardly ever go to Robin's house. “So, why does that make you sad?” I asked. “You feel like you have to be Miss America too?”
“No!” Robin wriggled off the bed. “I’m bored. Let's do something.”
“What?”
“Play with your hamster?”
“I’m tired of him.”
“Ride bikes?”
I shook my head. “My bike's got a flat. Besides, I’m sick of bikes. There's no place to ride around here. Roller-skate?”
“Didn’t bring my skates with me.”
I made a face, but I didn’t suggest that we walk over to Robin's house to get them, even though she lives only a few minutes away. It's just understood that nobody goes to Robin's house. “Pooh! What then?”
Robin just shrugged. She still looked sad, the way she gets sometimes, and I realized we had to do something or we’d end up staring at each other all afternoon. I knew my mom would have some ideas, or at least she’d give us a good laugh. I opened my bedroom door. “Ma!” I shouted.
Mom hates being called “Ma,” and it's a joke between us. If I call her “Ma” she shouts back in an awful, super-loud voice, “What?”
There was no answer, but I could hear the typewriter going in her downstairs office. I waited until she paused, then shouted again. “Ma!”
“What?” she shouted back, and I could tell by her voice that she was laughing,
“Ma, we’re bored. What can we do?”
“Scrub the kitchen floor.”
“Mommy, dearest, we don’t want to scrub the kitchen floor. What can we do?”
“I have a whole list,” she called back, “but I can’t shout, so you’d better come down.”
Robin grinned at me, and we both ran downstairs. My mom is a lawyer, and her office is on the first floor of our house, with a side door for her clients. She set up her office at home after I was born so she wouldn’t have to be away from me all day. She said she sure wasn’t going to give up her work, the thing she loved most—besides Daddy and me, that is.
When we went into her office, she rolled her chair away from the typewriter and waved Robin and me into the big squashy chairs she has. “So”—she smiled at us— “you’re bored, and yet you don’t want to scrub the floor?”
“Nope.” Robin smiled back at her, and as I watched, I smiled too. All my friends think my mom is neat, and it feels really good. Once, when we were little, we voted, and Mom was voted the best mom in the neighborhood. “Nope,” Robin said. “I hate scrubbing floors.”
“Smart girl,” Mom said. She turned to me. “Ride bikes? Roller-skate?”
“You can do better than that,” I said.
“Take your chicken for a walk? Dress up your dolls and put them in a carriage?”
“What?” Robin squealed.
“Imagine you’re a grasshopper,” Mom continued, and she began ticking things off on her fingers. “Paint a dog. Clean your toothbrush. Squeeze a turtle. Inspect your fingernails. Hold both elbows in one hand.”
We were both giggling now, and Robin tried holding both elbows in one hand. She didn’t do too well.
“Or make yourselves some Reuben sandwiches and take them out on the roof to eat.”
“Really?” This time I squealed.
“Really. I bought all the stuff for Reuben sandwiches.”
“Oh, Mom, you’re wonderful!”
“I know.” She smiled.
I love Reuben sandwiches. You make them with corned beef or pastrami and sauerkraut and cheese on rye bread and heat them in the oven until the cheese melts. Next to hot-fudge sundaes, they’re about my favorite food in the whole world. “But can we really eat them on the roof?” I asked.
“If you’re on the flat part over the garage—and if you don’t tell everybody in the neighborhood and get me in trouble.”
“I won’t. I promise.” I knew what Mom meant. She lets me do some things that other moms don’t let their kids do. Sometimes the other kids try it, and then their moms get mad at my mom—like the time when I was little and Mom let me paint myself all over with watercolors. The other kids saw it and they tried it too, but they used house paint on themselves. It was a disaster, and the whole neighborhood was upset for a week.
“And you have to wear sneakers,” Mom was saying. “No bare feet on the roof or you might slip.”
“Oh, Mom, that's great,” I said. Robin and I struggled up out of the stuffed chairs, and I went to Mom, wrapped my arms around her waist, and hugged her. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Ow!”
She sucked in her breath and pulled away from me suddenly.
“What's the matter? Did I hurt you?” I hadn’t squeezed her that hard.
“Yes,” Mom said quietly. She rubbed a spot low on her back and wiggled around, as if she were trying to get rid of a hurting place.
“I’m sorry,” I said, puzzled.
“It's not your fault.” Mom smiled at me, but she seemed puzzled too. “I’ve had lots of sore spots there lately, little things. I don’t know why. Nothing, I guess.” She smiled again. “Now careful with the sandwiches in the oven, and if you need help, shout. And don’t forget the sneakers.”