I did the laundry and turned all the white stuff gray, so now I’m wearing a grubby blotched T-shirt in memory of Mom. It’s a good thing we’re not Hindu.
Why do they make clothes out of material that shrinks or leaks color? We’re supposed to be a technologically advanced society. Our washing machine has a computer inside it. You’d think I could toss in a pair of pajamas and a T-shirt and they’d come out the same size and color as before, only clean. But no. They come out shrunken and gray.
I’m tired of doing housework. When Mom was alive, we had a maid who came every Monday and cleaned the house and changed the beds and did the laundry. But the Monday after Mom died, Grandma sent the maid away and changed the beds herself. Grandma and Grandpa went back to British Columbia after the funeral. I tried to get the maid back a few weeks ago, but she took one look around and said we needed a spring-cleaning team. And it’s not even spring.
If there was a stupid, dangerous machine to clean houses, I would use it right now and probably get electrocuted and win a Darwin Award.
I looked at some crime websites yesterday. There are a lot of insane people out there who kill people for no good reason. It could be anyone who put the snake in Mom’s car. Maybe Mom gave Cheetah a bad mark— that’s enough reason to kill someone if you’re insane. Or maybe the crying guy wanted Mom’s office—who knows? I wish I didn’t care so much. Unless it was Dad who killed her, what difference does it make how she died? I just wish it never happened.
It sounds spoiled, but I miss Mom’s usefulness. She organized my whole life. Since she’s been dead, there’s nothing going on. I never hear from my friends, and the house is so crazy I don’t even want them over. I could tell the other night that Simpson was happy to leave. He said he doesn’t want to come over tonight after the game, and I don’t blame him. Sammy’s always speaking to our dead mother, Dad’s a big idiot and I have nothing to talk about except their insanity.
I need to find out if Mom registered me for any camps in late August. I need to be with other people. I played Civilization for seven hours straight today— I pretty much conquered the planet. Then I read Sammy a book where Scooby-Doo goes to ancient Rome, until I got a headache and yelled at him and made him cry. And that was my whole day.
I wrote to Karen, but I couldn’t think of much to say. I hope she writes back. I’ve liked her since grade two, and things just got started at graduation when we kissed and she said she really liked me. Then Mom died and Karen went away to camp. Things were really good before Mom died. I know it’s not her fault, but why couldn’t she have just pulled over?
This is later the same day. Any normal kid my age is sleeping.
We lost our soccer game tonight. I didn’t score a single goal, and everyone was mad at me. But why should I have to score every game? Someone else should score for a change.
Simpson’s mom applied for a cross-boundary transfer so he can go to the same junior high school as me. That would be good. He said he was switching parents at the game, which is why he couldn’t come over tonight. I saw his dad sitting in the bleachers far away from his mom, so I think it’s true. Anyway, I had some fun with him at soccer. I teased him because he wore his hat offside, trying to cover up a big scabby thing at the top of his ear. He denies it’s a failed and festering attempt at piercing, but what else could it be?
Sammy’s in here talking about kindergarten, even though it’s past midnight. He was scared in his own room. He says Mom is coming home soon, and he’ll sleep in his bed again when she’s with him. What am I supposed to say to that?
His journal is almost full. I told him to draw nice things that Mom would like. “Like Power Rangers?” he asked. Only he said it, “Li-i-ike, like, um, uh, uh, like, li-i-i-ike Power Rangers?” He’s not like normal stutterers, who can’t get their consonants out. Sammy stutters vowels. He fills space with whining gibberish like he’s mentally retarded, but really he’s not at all. He’s really very smart.
I said, “Yeah, like Power Rangers. And flowers and cats and walks in the woods.” He said, “And, and, a-a-and treasure hunts a-a-a-and mazes?” I said, “Sure.” Then he said, “And, and, a-a-and that will make Mom come home?” I said, “No.” So he’s probably drawing a psycho snake picture.
Okay. Just now I said to him, “Maybe Mom can see you wherever she is, and she wants to see you draw something she’d like, not a snake that would scare her.” That made a strong impression on Sammy. He put down his journal and cried his little eyes out, stuttering, “I’m sorry, Mommy. I-I-I’m sorry I scared you.” Little kids cry so hard they break your heart.
He ran to his room and came back with a toy Power Ranger. It’s a girl Ranger, a light blue one that he never played with before in his life. Mom used it when they played Power Rangers together. Mom would draw a map on the walkway, like a crazy hopscotch, and she’d put bad guys and wild animals in the squares. Then the Power Rangers would travel the map fighting the bad guys until they saved the world.
Mom said she and I used to play that game too, and we watched Power Rangers on tv together when I was little and it came on at a decent time instead of 6:30 Sunday morning. I don’t remember ever watching Power Rangers. I remember a few things from when I was Sammy’s age, but not much. I don’t remember starting school.
Mom made a kindergarten book for me, to hold the drawings and crafts I made. It has my class picture in it, but I don’t remember any of the kids. I can recognize Simpson, but I don’t remember playing with him back then. Mom has stories in the book about things I said and shows I watched and places I went. We went to England that year and I saw Stonehenge and Windsor Castle and all kinds of cool things I don’t remember at all.
That means Sammy won’t remember Mom by the time he’s twelve. And maybe I won’t remember her by the time I’m twenty. This is the saddest thought I’ve had since she died—and I’ve had a lot of sad thoughts.
Mom and I were really close. She’d tell me nice things about myself, and she’d make my favorite peanut-butter cookies on Sunday even though no one else likes them, and she’d take me to the IMAX whenever a new show came to town. She’d tell me funny jokes and ask if I’d heard any good ones lately. And sometimes I would make her laugh so hard that I could see her fillings and she’d smack the table and cackle like a witch. It was a great feeling to make her laugh like that.
If I forget all that, it will be like it never happened. And even though one day we’ll all be dead, and even the earth and the sun will be dead, it just seems wrong to forget Mom while I’m alive and she’s not.
Sammy won’t remember anything she did for him—the songs she made up and the games she played and the stories she read, and all the good things she brought into his life that are gone now. He’ll have an empty hole where Mom should be. And even if she’s dead, there should be something there besides a hole.
I’m going to make a scrapbook about Mom, like she did about me in kindergarten. Sammy and I can keep it forever, like a memory shelf, except it’s a book.
I just realized that when Sammy ran to his room to get the blue Power Ranger, he ran forward, not backward. So there’s hope for him yet. I forgot to ask our neighbor about the five-year-old soccer team, but I’ll try to remember before my game tomorrow.
I’m in a better mood now and it’s really late, so I should go to bed. Sammy’s head is hanging down near his journal and he’s drooling on it, so he must be asleep. He looks totally cute and peaceful, and you’d never know he was bawling his eyes out ten minutes ago.