Say Good-Bye #5

  “I guess my line was busy.”

  Mom laughs. “Zoe! That’s very funny!”

  “So… what was your message?” I ask.

  “I think I’ve got a part in a sitcom!” she almost squeals.

  “What? I thought you already had a part.”

  “Oh, didn’t Gran tell you?” she asks. “That show is on hold. I don’t know if it will ever go back into production. And it really wasn’t a very good part anyway. But this one—it’s a real winner!

  “That’s great!” I say. My hopes swell like a birthday balloon.

  “Well, it’s not for sure or anything,” Mom goes on, “but it looks really good—”

  “Oh, Mom! Tell me all about it!”

  “Well, it’s a callback for a pilot,” she begins.

  A little air seeps out of my balloon. “A callback?”

  “Yeah. I went to an audition, and now they’re calling me back for a second read. That means they’re seriously considering me for the role!”

  “Oh.”

  I guess I sound disappointed, because Mom insists, “No, Zoe, that’s really good! That means I’ve almost got the part.” She takes a deep breath. “Oh, Zoe, doll, this part was made for me—it is me!

  “That’s great, Mom. So now what happens?”

  “I’ll read again tomorrow, and then I should hear something next week, maybe. But I gotta tell you, sweetheart, it’s looking like a sure thing.”

  “Great!” I say. Then I try to send her a psychic message of my own.

  She doesn’t get it.

  So I try the direct route. “So when can I come…” I start to say “home,” but “home” to me is New York. I’ve never even been to California. So I just say “…out there?”

  Again, silence on the other end. Not good.

  “Mom?”

  “Soon, honey. I promise.”

  Soon. One of the vaguest words in the English language. Soon can mean anything. Seconds, minutes, days… years!

  “How soon is soon?” I ask in a small voice.

  “Well, you see, like I said, the part is for a pilot,” she explains. “For a midseason replacement.”

  This “sure thing” is sounding more unsure every second.

  “So if I get the part—” She laughs. “I mean, when I get the part, we’ll shoot a pilot episode. Then they’ll use that to try to sell the series. And if one of the major networks picks it up, well go into full production and be on the air by January.”

  She goes on and on in this really excited voice about how her agent says it’s her lucky break, that this is how a lot of actresses break into the big time. She sounds more like a hyper little girl than a mom.

  “So …” I persist. “When do you think I can come out there? I mean, it’s not all that long till school starts again, Mom, you know? And I don’t want to start here if I’m going to move to California soon—”

  “Zoe. Honey …”

  I stop, and a lump fills my throat.

  Especially when Mom says, “You might have to go ahead and start school there—”

  “Mom!”

  “I know, honey,” she says. “I know how you’re feeling. Believe me, I’m not happy about this, either.”

  Could have fooled me.

  “Everything’s so … you know, up in the air,” she goes on, “but if this all works out … well, Zoe, sweetheart, this could really be my big break. The one I’ve been waiting for.”

  I don’t say anything. For a moment, I don’t trust myself to speak without crying. I stare down at the files on the desk. The name Yum-Yum swims in front of my eyes. I trace Gran’s bold, scrawling cursive with my fingertip as I blink back tears.

  “This will be good for us, Zoe,” Mom insists. “You’ll see.”

  When I still don’t say anything, she sighs. “Zoe, honey…” Her voice is soft, pleading. “Aren’t you happy for me?”

  I try to swallow the lump. “Sure, Mom,” I manage to say, forcing a smile into my voice. And I am happy for her. I’m just not happy for me. “So …” I force myself to joke, “am I first in line for an autograph?”

  Mom laughs—a laugh that belongs on TV. Warm, golden, full of music. “You betcha, doll! And just wait, Zoe. This is going to be great for us. I promise. Just you wait.”

  Wait, she says. What choice do I have?

  “So,” I start again. “Are you at least going to get to come visit soon?” Surely she has time for that.

  “Zoe, honey …”

  I wish she’d stop saying that! “Too busy, huh?” I say before she can.

  “You know I want to, doll. And I will—soon. I promise. It’s just that, I mean, if this thing goes through, I’m going to be really busy till we get the pilot shot—”

  “I understand, Mom. Really,” I say.

  “Oh, Zoe, you’re the best,” Mom gushes. “I’ll send you some autographs of the other actors. For your collection. How’s that sound?”

  “Great,” I say.

  “So, listen, I’ve gotta go. Is Gran there? I guess I ought to speak to her a sec.”

  “Sure, Mom. I’ll get her.”

  “Bye, sweetheart! Love ya!”

  “Yeah,” I choke out. “Love ya, too.”

  I lay down the phone and stare at the receiver. I want to pick it up again. Talk to her about Yum-Yum. Tell her how scared I am that he might have cancer. I want to tell her about the kids I saw at the hospital, the ones with no hair. How sad it made me feel. And how Sneakers is determined to drive me crazy.

  I want to tell her … that I really, really miss her.

  But she’s so happy about her audition. What good would it do to make her feel bad? I don’t want her to come get me because she feels guilty. I want her to come get me because she misses me too much to go another day without me.

  Tell her, I think. Tell her you miss her so badly it hurts. Beg her to come get you.

  But it’s easier not to ask. Easier not to hear her say she can’t.

  Instead, I buzz Gran on the intercom.

  As Gran picks up the phone, I hang around, pretending to sort and stack files. But it’s really so I can eavesdrop on their conversation. I can hear Gran’s strong, clear voice through the open examining-room door.

  “Rose!” I hear Gran say cheerfully. “How are things going?”

  Gran does a lot of nodding, but her smile is fading away. “But, Rose, you really need to …” I try to get closer so I can hear what my mom needs to do. I carry a stack of folders over to a filing cabinet. But Sneakers chooses that moment to run into the clinic. When he strikes a familiar pose, I plop the files back on the desk and reach for him. “Oh, no, you don’t!” I scoop him up and dash outdoors in the nick of time. For once he makes a puddle outside, not on the kitchen floor. I guess that counts as a success.

  I sit down on the steps leading to the deck and clap my hands for Sneakers to come. He runs over and licks my outstretched hand. Then my arm. Then my face! “Oh, Sneakers! What would I do without you!” I say as I scoop him into my lap. But that makes me think about Jane and how one day soon, she may have to do without Yum-Yum.

  I hug Sneakers tightly, and he squirms a little, but I don’t want to let go. “Do you think Yum-Yum’s going to be all right?” I whisper into his ear.

  Sneakers yaps happily, and I decide to take that as a good sign. But I won’t stop worrying until Gran tells me everything’s okay.

  Just then Brenna comes out of Dr. Mac’s Place, walking a freshly groomed poodle. I have to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Brenna asks.

  “You, that’s what,” I reply, pointing. “A poodle? Not exactly your style.”

  Brenna shrugs and grins. She’s wearing boots, and clothes that look as if they were dug out of her brother’s laundry hamper. Her long brown hair is pulled back into a quick braid. She’d be really pretty if she’d just let me dress her and do something with her hair.

  But Brenna’s not a fancy kind of girl. And she’s definitely not into fancy,
poodly pets. Her favorite animals are anything wild. Her parents are “wildlife rehabilitators.” They rescue injured or sick animals, then take care of them until they’re well enough to be released back into the wild. And her pet? Poe—a pet crow!

  “I want to take some pictures of her,” Brenna says. “I’m thinking of starting a summer business—Pet Portraits by Brenna. What do you think?”

  “Well, you’re in the right place to get some business,” I say.

  When we all went to Florida to help out with the manatees, Brenna took her camera everywhere. She’s really getting good at photography.

  I watch as she moves around, taking pictures of the poodle from several different angles.

  Then she turns around and looks at me. “Hey, want me to take a few shots of you and Sneakers?”

  “Sure,” I say. I finger-comb my hair as I kneel down beside Sneakers, then lick my lips and smile. Maybe I can send a copy to my mom with the caption: Zoe—Friendly, housebroken, needs a good home.

  “Sit!” I say to Sneakers through my posed grin.

  The poodle sits. Sneakers does not. Instead, he barks and runs around my legs.

  “Think you’re cute?” I snort and scoop the rascal into my arms, intending to scold him. But then Sneakers licks my nose, and I can’t help but laugh.

  I hear Brenna’s camera clicking away.

  “He’s cute, all right,” I grudgingly admit. I hold him up beside my face, pressing my cheek against his. “But he’s driving me crazy!”

  “What’s wrong?” Brenna asks as she snaps some more shots.

  “He won’t follow my commands. He absolutely refuses to learn any tricks. And he goes to the bathroom wherever and whenever he wants.”

  “Sounds like he has a mind of his own.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way!” I laugh. “Unfortunately, Gran seems to think his bad manners are all my fault.”

  “Try turning the other way,” Brenna suggests. “Then hold Sneakers up and look over your shoulder at me.”

  I try the pose—and shriek when Sneakers pulls my hair with his teeth.

  “Maybe you should try an alarm or timer,” Brenna suggests, still snapping pics. “You can set it to remind you to take Sneakers out every two hours. That’s what my family does when we’re working with a wild animal that’s sick or hurt. We set a timer to remind us to feed it and check on it. Once you’ve got him trained, you can gradually lengthen the time between trips.”

  “That might work.”

  “Speaking of time, I have to go. Good luck with Sneakers!” Brenna takes the poodle back into the clinic, and I hurry upstairs to my room with Sneakers in tow. He jumps onto the bed and makes himself comfy as I open my jewelry box and pull out the watch Mom gave me for my birthday last year. It has all kinds of gizmos on it. I strap it on, then fiddle with it till I figure out how to set the alarm.

  I set it to beep every two hours.

  Then I turn back to Sneakers. “Oh, no!” I wail.

  Sneakers barks up at me—from the middle of a wet spot in the center of my bed!

  • • • • • • •

  Things have been pretty busy at the clinic this afternoon. The phone keeps ringing, and a steady parade of patients flows through the waiting room. Sunita, David, Brenna, and I have been helping Gran and Dr. Gabe. There’s no time to check on Yum-Yum or to ask Gran how he’s doing.

  I’m actually glad when Maggie comes home from basketball camp. We can use her help.

  I’m surprised that two hours have passed each time the alarm on my watch beeps. But when it does, I excuse myself as soon as I can and escort Sneakers, the Amazing Peeing Puppy, outdoors.

  Each time, he looks up at me expectantly.

  “Well?” I say. I scowl at Sneakers, trying to act tough. But he only lies down on the ground and thumps his tail.

  “You’re hopeless!” I scold him. Then I feel sorry for scolding him and scoop him up for a big hug.

  At the end of the day, as the sun begins to set, I take Yum-Yum out to do his business. And guess who copies him?

  Sneakers! He follows Yum-Yum around, goes where he goes, then lies down beside him on the deck.

  Laughing, I sit down on the top step and give both dogs a good petting, nose to tail.

  I look out across the yard, listening to the birds and crickets, watching the sky explode into a dozen shades of pink and blue. A soft breeze lifts my hair and cools the perspiration on my neck.

  Not a skyscraper or a taxi in sight.

  “I’m a long way from Manhattan,” I whisper to the dogs.

  Then Gran comes out and sits down beside me. “Whew, what a day,” she says.

  I study her profile as she drinks in the peaceful view of the sunset. Sometimes I can hardly believe she and my mom are related, much less mother and daughter. I mean, I love them both, but they seem as different as night and day.

  Gran is a tall woman, with strong hands and arms. She runs a lot and wears her hair cut supershort because she says she has no time for blow-dryers and styling gels. She’s tough and serious, though kind, and would rather work in the clinic than do anything else in the world.

  Mom, on the other hand, spends half her life doing her hair and makeup and working out to stay slim so she’ll look great in her clothes.

  “It’s, my job to look good,” she always says.

  I can’t help but wonder about the two of them.

  “So,” I ask hesitantly, “what’s the news?”

  “About Yum-Yum?” she asks, though of course she knows that’s what I mean. Her shoulders seem to sag a little, and she sighs. “I did the biopsy and a few other tests.”

  “And?” Everything’s fine, I e-mail her mentally. Tell me everything’s fine.

  “And I need to discuss the results with Jane in the morning,” she says simply.

  “But what do you think—”

  “In the morning,” she repeats firmly as she gets to her feet. Then she smiles. “Come on. I need to get out of the office. What do you say we take a drive and get some takeout? Chinese, maybe?”

  “Sounds good, but Maggie will probably complain,” I try to joke, picking up Sneakers to carry him inside.

  But I don’t really feel like eating, not even Chinese, one of my favorite kinds of food.

  Wouldn’t Gran tell me if Yum-Yum was okay?

  Chapter Six

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  Beep-beep-beep-beep!

  I cover my head with a pillow.

  Beep-beep-beep-beep!

  My hand snakes out. I blindly search for the alarm clock on my nightstand. Got to hit that snooze button …

  Then I remember.

  It’s not my alarm clock. It’s that beeper on my watch!

  I throw back my covers. I sling one foot over the side of the bed. But I can’t get up. I can’t even force my eyes to open.

  I’ve never been so tired in all my life. And it’s all that mangy mutt’s fault!

  I tried Brenna’s suggestion. I took Sneakers out every two hours. Every time the beeper rang. All night long!

  I didn’t even bother putting him in his portable dog crate when I came back in the last time. Gran says that when you’re training new puppies, it’s a good place to have them sleep. She says it helps housebreak them, because they don’t want to pee in their own bed. And it keeps them from wandering around at night unsupervised. But Sneakers whined too much when I put him in the crate, and I was too tired to argue!

  Who would have thought something so cuddly could be so much trouble?

  At last the watch stops beeping. I listen hard for sounds of Sneakers. All’s quiet. I guess even he’s worn out!

  Maybe I’ll just lie here a minute. Practice my mental telepathy—with my eyes closed, of course.

  I mentally e-mail my mom: Come get me! Save me from this endless poop patrol!

  No reply.

  I send Yum-Yum a mental get-well card: Be okay!

  I even try comm
unicating with Sneakers by ESP. Today you will be instantly and thoroughly trained.

  Suddenly I hear Maggie shriek down the hall.

  I jump out of bed and reach the door before I’m totally awake.

  Maggie is there, shoving something in my face. I open one eye and peer at it. It looks like a twisted piece of plastic.

  “No, thank you,” I mumble. “I can’t eat when I first get up.”

  Maggie doesn’t laugh at my joke. “When are you going to start taking care of that dog of yours?” she yells.

  A surge of anger wakes me up. I mean, I’ve been up most of the night dog training while she snored away in her room. “What do you think I’ve been doing all night?” I shoot back. “I took Sneakers out every two hours. I guarantee he’s on empty! If you’ve got poop in your room, it’s definitely not ours!”

  Sneakers comes running down the hall at that moment. I lean down and pat him on the head.

  “I’m not talking about that,” Maggie replies angrily. “I’m talking about this!” She shakes the icky piece of plastic in my face again. “It’s my mouth guard! He chewed it to bits. And I don’t have time to get a new one before camp.”

  Oops. Guess I left my door open when I came in that last time.

  Guess Sneakers wandered a bit when I didn’t put him in his crate.

  “You shouldn’t have let him run loose during the night,” Maggie says.

  “But he was whining,” I say, defending myself. “I couldn’t sleep—”

  “He needs to stay in his crate at night—no matter how much he whines,” Maggie replies. “Don’t you know anything?”

  I hear Gran coming down the hall. “Girls, girls, what’s going on?” she asks.

  “Zoe let Sneakers chew up my mouth guard,” Maggie says.

  “I didn’t let him,” I protest, then add, “and maybe if you didn’t leave your junk all over the floor, Sneakers wouldn’t have chewed it up.” I knew that would make her mad. Maggie’s not the neatest person in the world.

  “She left Sneakers out of his crate!” Maggie says.

  Gran takes the twisted lump of plastic from Maggie’s hand. I expect her to give Maggie a lecture about cleaning up her room.

  Instead she says, “Girls, Sneakers could have choked on this.” She doesn’t yell, but I feel horrible anyway. How many times have I seen her deal with pets that’ve swallowed harmful objects?