Stacey's Choice

  “We waited for you after school,” said Mary Anne.

  My friends called separately, so I had to tell the same story over and over (except to Mallory, who heard it from her mother). If I’d been able to go to the BSC meeting I could have gotten away with telling it just once. But of course I didn’t attend the meeting. Dawn took over my duties and collected dues.

  Near dinnertime I was in the kitchen, busy making chicken noodle soup (oh, all right — heating up canned soup), when Claud called back. “How’s your mom?” she wanted to know. “Everyone was asking about her at the meeting.”

  “Okay, I guess. She’s just sleeping mostly. She wakes up long enough to take her pills, then she drifts off. I hope she’ll eat something tonight, but I don’t know.”

  “Will you be in school tomorrow?” asked Claud.

  “I — Oh, I hear my mom! She’s awake after all. Claud, I better go. I have to see how she is. Call you later. ’Bye.”

  It was while I was on the phone again with Claudia later in the evening that something occurred to me. If I didn’t even know whether I’d be in school the next day, what was I going to do about the weekend? My big weekend in the Big Apple was supposed to begin in four days. What on earth was I going to do about it?

  I did not sleep much Monday night. I kept listening for Mom. She was coughing a lot. And twice I had to wake her up to give her pills. Each time I returned to my bed, I just lay there, one ear trained in the direction of my mother’s room. No wonder new parents don’t get much sleep, I thought. When they aren’t up feeding the baby, they’re probably lying awake listening for the sound of crying.

  Around five-thirty on Tuesday morning I finally gave up on the idea of sleep. I tiptoed out of my room and peeked in at my mother. I thought she sounded a little better. She had not coughed in almost half an hour. I settled myself into a chair just outside Mom’s room and began to read.

  * * *

  “Stacey?” called Mom.

  It was after seven. I was halfway finished with the book.

  I jumped up and ran to her bed. “Good morning,” I said cheerfully.

  “Morning.” (Cough, cough.) “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?”

  “Me? No, I’m staying home today.” (I had made that decision at three-thirty, lying awake in my bed.)

  “But it’s Tuesday … isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And you’re sick.”

  “It isn’t necessary for you to stay home with me, though.”

  “Mom. I’m not leaving you. You have pneumonia.”

  “Honey, Dee will drop by today. And she said she’d arrange for other neighbors to do the same.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” I repeated. “You stay with me when I’m sick.”

  “But you’re my daughter.”

  “You’re my mother.”

  Mom sighed. “Okay. You may stay home today.”

  “Thank you. What do you want for breakfast?”

  My mother groaned. “Do I have to eat?”

  “Only if you want to get well. You need strength. Plus, you make me eat when I’m sick.”

  Mom smiled. “You win. All right. Let me see. For breakfast I would like toast. And tea …” She trailed off.

  I nodded. “Right. Toast, tea, hot cereal, fresh fruit.”

  “Oh, honey, I can’t eat all that. Not this morning.”

  But I fixed it anyway. I served it to her on a tray, and she sat in her armchair and ate while I changed the sheets on her bed.

  “You’re a good nurse, Stacey,” she told me.

  “Thank you,” I replied. “You still have to eat your breakfast.” Mom was just picking around the edges of things.

  “I really can’t. I’ll get sick.”

  I sighed. “Okay.”

  Mom climbed back into bed and lay against her pillows. “Nicely fluffed,” she commented, and yawned. “Honestly, how could I be so tired? I slept all day yesterday and all last night and …” Mom’s eyes drooped.

  Before she could fall asleep I said, “Mom, I have to talk to you about something. It’s important.”

  “Really important? Or can it wait a little while?”

  “It’s pretty important. Mom, what about this weekend?”

  “This weekend?”

  “You know, Dad’s dinner. I’m supposed to go to New York.”

  “Right, the dinner. You can still go.”

  “And leave you?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Mom firmly. “First of all, Friday is three days away. I’ll be better by then. Second, I can arrange for Dee to look in on me. And she can run errands if I need anything.”

  “We-ell …”

  “Stace, I’m falling asleep. We’ll talk later. But plan on New York. It’ll be fine. Trust me.” Mom rolled over. The discussion had ended.

  I tiptoed downstairs with her breakfast tray, ate my own breakfast, then cleaned up the kitchen. I kept picturing my mother lying on the gurney in the hospital emergency room, looking sicker than anyone should look, and saying, “I don’t think this is the flu, Stacey.”

  How could I leave her? Maybe I should talk to my father, I thought. And then I realized he didn’t even know Mom was sick. Nobody had called him. True, he and Mom weren’t married anymore, but Dad had a right to know that his ex-wife had pneumonia. Especially if it meant I might have to miss our special weekend in New York.

  I dialed the number of Dad’s office. His secretary answered the phone.

  “Hi,” I said. “It’s Stacey. Is my dad there?”

  Dad has given his secretary instructions to put through all of my phone calls, no matter what. Even if he is in an important meeting. So a few minutes later I heard my father’s voice say, “Hi, sweetie. What’s wrong? Shouldn’t you be in school? … Are you sick?”

  “No, but Mom is,” I answered. “Dad, she has pneumonia.”

  “Pneumonia! Is she in the hospital? Who are you staying with?”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “She’s at home. She went to the emergency room yesterday, but the doctor said she didn’t need to stay.” I told Dad that Mom hadn’t been feeling well recently, and explained what had happened the day before.

  “And you’re sure she’s all right now?” he said. “I mean, that she’s as well as can be expected? She really shouldn’t be in the hospital?”

  “I’m positive. You can call Mrs. Pike, if you want to.”

  “Maybe I will.” Dad sounded awfully concerned. Then he said, “Stacey, who’s taking care of you?”

  “Of me? I’m not sick. I’m taking care of Mom. But, Dad, I’m a little worried about this weekend, about coming to New York.”

  “I’ll help you make arrangements for your mother,” Dad assured me. “Maybe I can set up something with a visiting nurse service.”

  “Okay …”

  “Brighten up,” Dad went on. “Only three more days until Friday. Then you can take a break from school and sickness and everything else. Honey, I hope you know how important you are to me. To your mother and me. I will be honored to have you with me at the dinner. It will be a big moment and I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather share it with.”

  I felt a knot form in my stomach. I just had to go to New York on Friday. I couldn’t miss Dad’s dinner, his big moment. But I couldn’t leave Mom either. Why was I always choosing between my parents? There ought to be, I thought, a Divorce Handbook written just for kids to warn them about things like this. It would say, Even if you decide which parent to live with after the divorce, you will forever be choosing between them.

  I wondered if this would go on when I was grown and married and had kids of my own. I could imagine Thanksgiving. I would say to my husband, “Dear, where will we spend Thanksgiving this year? At my mother’s or my father’s?” And my husband, whose parents would also be divorced, would reply, “Or at my mother’s or my father’s?”

  At least when you are adults you could decide, “Let’s spend Thanksgiving by ourselves this year.” But then
I would still worry about my parents who would have to spend the holiday alone.

  Maybe I would write the Divorce Handbook myself one day. I would ask all my friends whose parents are also divorced to be contributing writers and editors.

  * * *

  I decided not to worry about my decision for awhile. I was too busy caring for my mother. I had to see that she took her medicine, ate healthy food, and was never left alone in case she needed help getting to the bathroom or something.

  Late that morning Mrs. Pike came over. “Stacey! I wasn’t expecting to find you here. Why aren’t you in school?”

  Why wasn’t I in school? For heaven’s sake, my mother had pneumonia. Where did Mrs. Pike think I would be? “I’m taking care of Mom,” I replied, surprised.

  “She may be sick for awhile, hon.”

  This was a good point, and I had been giving it serious consideration. Mom probably would be sick for awhile. And I couldn’t keep missing school. I miss enough of it when I’m sick. “I know,” I said to Mrs. Pike, “but I’m taking care of everything. Leave it to me.”

  I had decided that if I couldn’t be with my mother, then someone else should be. At all times. So I planned to contact Mom’s friends and our neighbors and arrange for people to come stay with her while I was in school. They could come by in shifts. I would care for Mom the rest of the time. I would have to ask Mary Anne to find replacements for me for my sitting jobs during the next few days, but she would understand. She could call on our associate members, if she needed to.

  While Mrs. Pike sat with my mother, I spread out a long piece of paper on the kitchen table. I drew up an hourly chart and marked off the times when I would be in school. Then I picked up the telephone.

  “Hello, Mrs. Braddock?” I said. “This is Stacey McGill. Did you hear that my mom is sick? … Yeah, she has pneumonia….”

  When I hung up the phone I was able to fill in a couple of the boxes on the chart. By lunchtime, the entire chart had been filled in.

  I was proud of my chart. Not only did I fill it in, but the system actually worked. At seven-thirty on Wednesday morning as I was eating my breakfast and fixing Mom’s at the same time, the doorbell rang. Mrs. Arnold had arrived. Mrs. Arnold, our neighbor, is the mother of Marilyn and Carolyn Arnold, twins for whom the members of the BSC often sit.

  I ran to answer the door. “Thank you so much for coming!” I exclaimed.

  “My pleasure,” replied Mrs. Arnold.

  “Now, my mom is still asleep,” I told her. “At least, I think she is. She should wake up soon, though, and then please make her eat breakfast. She needs to keep her strength up. At eight-thirty she has to take one of these pills” (I held up a bottle) “and she can have aspirin if she wants it, since she’s been getting headaches. She doesn’t take another pill until ten, but you’ll be off duty by then, and, let me see” (I checked my handy chart) “Mrs. Barrett will be here. I’ve left written instructions on the kitchen table for each person who will be taking care of Mom while I’m at school.”

  I noticed that Mrs. Arnold was smiling, and I raised my eyebrows.

  “Oh, Stacey,” she said, “it’s just that this is such a switch: my coming to your house, and your giving me directions on how to care for someone.”

  I smiled, too, then. “Reverse baby-sitting,” I agreed. “Mom-sitting.”

  Ten minutes later I was saying good-bye to my mother who was only about half-awake. “I’m sorry I have to leave,” I told her, “but, well, I really can’t miss too much school. Mrs. Arnold is here. She’s down in the kitchen, but she’ll come upstairs as soon as I leave. She’s going to bring you your breakfast and later your pills, and she’ll be here until nine-thirty. Then Mrs. Barrett is coming over, and after that, Mrs. Braddock and then Mrs. Prezzioso. I thought Mrs. Pike needed a break. Oh, and don’t worry. Mrs. Prezzioso won’t bring the baby with her. Andrea is going to stay at the Braddocks’. I’ll come home right after school to relieve Mrs. P. Then you won’t have another sitter until tomorrow when I leave for school again.”

  I tried to sound confident so Mom wouldn’t worry. Then I ended up worrying all through school. Would my sitters show up when they were supposed to? What if someone forgot to come over? What if someone misplaced Mom’s pills? What if, what if, what if? Several times I started toward the pay phones to call Mom between classes, but then I chickened out. What if she were sleeping and I woke her up?

  As soon as school ended I dashed home. I ran through our front door and stopped to listen. The house was quiet.

  Uh-oh.

  “Mom? Mom!” I called.

  Mrs. Prezzioso appeared at the top of the stairs. “Shh, Stacey,” she whispered. “Your mother is sleeping.”

  “Did she eat her lunch?” I asked.

  Mrs. P. was tiptoeing downstairs. “Mrs. Braddock gave it to her. I think she ate most of it. She’s certainly been drinking fluids.”

  My mom was fine. Not fine as in all well, but fine as in the day had gone smoothly. The Mom-sitters had arrived on time, and my mother had been given her pills. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  * * *

  I spent the afternoon with my mother (once she had woken up). I decided she looked a little better than she had the day before, which meant she was making slow but steady progress.

  At five-fifteen I was sitting in bed next to her, my shoes off, and we were watching a rerun of The Dick Van Dyke Show. Ordinarily, Mom would have been reading, but her head was aching. At any rate, my mother suddenly grabbed her wristwatch from the night table.

  “Stacey!” she exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be at a club meeting in fifteen minutes. You better find your shoes and get moving.”

  I shook my head. “I told Kristy I wouldn’t be there today. Dawn is going to handle the treasury for me.”

  At that moment, Mom and I heard a door open and close downstairs. Then a voice called, “Hello?”

  “That’s Dee!” said Mom. Mrs. Pike had come over for a visit. “Now you can go to the meeting. Dee will stay with me. It’s only for half an hour.”

  “We-ell …” I replied. Then I said to Mrs. Pike, “But who’ll stay with your kids? Mallory’s going to the meeting, too. Isn’t she?”

  “Mr. Pike is home early today, hon,” she told me. “Now go on.”

  So I did. I hopped on my bike and rode to Claudia’s.

  Everyone was surprised to see me.

  I enjoyed the meeting thoroughly. I was glad to have a half hour in which to think about something other than school and Mom’s health.

  “Well,” said Claudia after we had taken care of club business, “mail delivery sure has become an exciting event.”

  “It has?” I said.

  “I’ll say,” agreed Mal. “The mail order stuff is starting to arrive.”

  “I was at the Braddocks’ this afternoon,” spoke up Jessi. “Matt got two patches. To sew on his clothes, I guess. One said BRACES ARE BEAUTIFUL. The other said OLD BOWLERS NEVER DIE; THEY END UP IN THE GUTTER. I have no idea why he wanted them. I don’t think he has, either. But he sure liked getting mail.”

  “Yesterday,” said Mal, “Vanessa received a bracelet-fastener and Nicky got a glass marble and a pamphlet about colleges in Minnesota.”

  “I hope Vanessa’s bust-developer arrives soon,” said Kristy, looking ruefully at her own chest, which is in need of development.

  Mary Anne giggled. “Me, too.”

  Then Dawn said, “Not to change the subject, but did you decide what to do about this weekend, Stace?” (My friends knew about my dilemma. We usually know everything about each other.)

  I shook my head. “I really don’t want to leave my mom, but you guys know how important the dinner is to my dad.”

  “Yeah,” said Dawn, who has been caught between her parents a couple of times. (Maybe I would make Dawn the co-author of the Divorce Handbook. She’s had as much divorce experience as I have.)

  “I mean, everyone has been really helpful,” I went on. I didn’t wan
t Mal to think I didn’t appreciate her mother. “And I filled in the chart pretty quickly when I decided I had to go back to school. But I don’t know. I’ll feel guilty going off to New York for a weekend of fun, and leaving Mom behind fighting pneumonia. Even if she is going to be well cared for. I know she’d never do that if I were sick. She’d stay by my side.”

  “But,” said Kristy, “she’s the mother and you’re the kid.”

  “So what? Mothers need to be taken care of, too. Anyway, if your mom was sick with pneumonia, would you, like, go to Disney World or something? That would look sort of selfish.”

  “Yeah, but you have a responsibility to your father,” spoke up Jessi.

  I closed my eyes briefly. “I know, I know.”

  “And it isn’t like you can postpone your weekend with him. The dinner is on Friday and that’s that.”

  “I know.” I paused. Then I said. “Sorry, Jessi. I don’t mean to sound crabby. But I’ve been having this very argument with myself since Monday night. I think, ‘This is a once-in-a-lifetime honor for Dad. All he has asked is that I be with him for this important event.’ Then I think, ‘My mother has pneumonia. People can die from that.’ The argument goes around and around. I know Mom isn’t going to die. She’s not sick enough. Still, it isn’t like she has some little cold. Two days ago she was in the emergency room.”

  My friends shifted in their seats. Dawn was frowning fiercely. Kristy and Mal were gazing into space, asking the ceiling for answers. After a few moments, I said, “If you guys were in my shoes, what would you do?”

  My friends voted. Three would go to New York, three would stay home.

  “Some help you are,” I said, but I was smiling.

  After the meeting, I rode my bicycle home, and on the way, I finally made a decision. I could not abandon Mom. I would stay with her as much as I could until she was well again.

  I knew Dad would not appreciate this news. I also knew I should give it to him as soon as possible. I phoned him after supper that evening.

  “Dad,” I said, “I have to tell you something. I have thought this over carefully. I’m not coming to New York this weekend. I’m going to stay here and take care of Mom.”