the longest night

We don't go back to our house today. Daddy doesn't want us to be in the house where mama died - not tonight at least. All I want is to lay in my mamas bed and hold her blue robe and smell her smell - but I am six. I cannot drive, and I cannot decide. So we don't go home.

We go to the Knudsen's. Dr. Knudsen was there when I was born. He delivered my brother too. He helped put the IV's in mama's arms so she did not have to go back to Sacremento so much. He is nice - so is his wife Joice. But they are liars. None of them told us the truth - that she was dying - even when we saw it with our own eyes. All of the grown ups are liars.

Joice makes grilled cheese sandwiches for us. I cannot eat it. It's not fair to eat a grilled cheese sandwich on the day that mama died. Joice sits next to me her fingers in my long-blonde hair. She calls me "sweetheart" and says I need to eat. I don't want her fingers in my hair, I don't want her stupid sandwich. I put three bites of sandwich in my mouth. Then I go to the bathroom and spit it out in the toilet. When the sandwich swirls away I know that my mama is happy. She sees how strong I am, and she and Jesus are probably up by the ceiling fan, holding hands, looking at me and smiling.

When it is dark I sit halfway up the stairs and look out the window. Little brother is with Brent. Brent is eleven. They are in the golf course - it's that kind of a house - big white pillars like where the president lives. A golf course inside the house. A pool and a guest home in the backyard. A playroom, four bathrooms, a living room, dining room, six bedrooms. I could get lost in here. Pastor Norm rings the doorbell. I can see him through the window. He is a grown up, but he is not one of the liars.

Joice opens the door and invites him in. She walks right past me without seeing.

But Pastor Norm sees. He climbs up the stairs and sits on the step right next to me. He doesn't say anything, just sits, elbows on his knees, his mouth pushed against his fists. We both stare out the window. It is a long time before he puts his hand on top of my head and says, "Your mommy loved you so much." I push my chin down hard and the tears start to come. It is the only true thing that anyone has said to me all day.

At night we sleep in Marcie's bed. Marcie is fifteen. She is beautiful with green-gray eyes and wavy brown hair. Marcie says I can sleep with any of her stuffed animals I want. I don't want any of them. Little brother picks out a giant blue puppy - the kind you win at the Kern County fair. I don't pick any. Sleeping with a pink panda bear on the day mama died is stupid. Mama and Jesus are smiling again.

Dr. Knudsen comes to tuck us in. Daddy is downstairs. Joice says he is "falling apart." I hate him for this - for being downstairs, for falling apart, for making us stay here - all of it. Pastor Norm is downstairs with him. The doctor kneels by the side of our bed. He says prayers with us, "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take." He cries. Little brother and I stare at him.

"Why are you crying?" I say.
"Because I am so sad for Terry - so sad for your mommy."
Little brother sniffs.
"Well she is fine now," I tell him. "Maybe you should have done something for her when she was here. There's no point now."
He lifts his head and looks at both of us. "I guess you are right," he says. He kisses both of our foreheads and leaves the room. I know it is not fair. I know that he helped her - helped all of us. But he is weak, and he is one of the liars. Another nod from Mama and Jesus.

Little brother lays in the bed next to me. "Now what?" he says. I don't know. I want to be gone - not just from this house, I want to be gone from everywhere. I don't answer him.

Laying in Marcie's bed, I stare at the door. Mama came to see me last night - just before she left. She wasn't wearing her blue robe - it was white, and she was walking by herself. I knew she was going somewhere - and she knew I knew. I hope she will come back tonight.

Last night, she came just inside the doorway of my room, and I knew. I knew the same way I knew about the cowboys. We looked at each other for a long time before she whispered, "I love you."
I swallowed the stuck peanut-butter-in-my throat feeling and said, "I love you to mommy."
She tipped her head almost totally sideways, smiled and said "I know." Then without turning around, or even really walking, she moved out of my room into the hallway. I was still sitting up and could see her in little brother's room. She stopped just inside the doorway. I don't know if he woke up, but I know she was there.

She doesn't come back - not tonight - not ever. And the longest wait when you are six years old, is when you are waiting for your dead mama to come kiss you goodnight.