Mary Anne and the Memory Garden

  Logan had left to put his books in his locker. When he returned, he said, “I found out that the car was a VW.”

  “Whose car?” Kristy asked. “The drunk’s, or the student’s?”

  Logan frowned. “I’m not sure.”

  “A VW?” I was starting to get a cold tingly feeling on my arms and legs. There weren’t very many students at our school whose family owned a Volkswagen. The pieces were starting to pile up. I just couldn’t let myself put them together.

  The first and second bells had rung, signaling that school had begun, but most of the students ignored them. I vaguely remembered that I was supposed to be in Mr. Blake’s homeroom, but I just couldn’t make myself leave my friends.

  “May I have your attention, please.” Mr. Kingbridge’s voice came over the public address system. “There will be a special assembly this morning. Will all students and teachers please walk in a calm, orderly manner to the auditorium? Thank you.”

  Logan hooked his arm through mine. “This is it,” he said softly. “Let’s go hear the bad news.”

  We sat a few rows from the front of the stage. Logan was on one side of me; Kristy was on the other. Claudia, Stacey, and Abby sat next to Kristy. Mallory and Jessi were in the seats behind them.

  Usually, when SMS students take their seats for an assembly, the noise is deafening. Not today. It was eerily quiet. Behind us I could hear several girls weeping softly. Aside from the sharp noise of footsteps in the aisles, the only other sound was hushed whispering.

  I felt as if I were in a church, not a middle school auditorium. The atmosphere reminded me of when Claudia’s grandmother, Mimi, died, and we went to her funeral.

  After a few agonizing minutes, Mr. Kingbridge, our assistant principal, and Mrs. Amer, one of the school’s guidance counselors, walked onto the stage. Usually Mr. Kingbridge uses a microphone to address the school, but he didn’t need one today. You could have heard a pin drop.

  His shoulders were slumped and he looked tired and old.

  “Students,” Mr. Kingbridge began, “I have some very sad news. Last night, the Freeman family was in a terrible accident.”

  I clutched Kristy’s hand so tightly my nails dug into her hand. “Oh, no,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes closed.

  “A drunk driver, going too fast, ran a stop sign and struck their car broadside,” Mr. Kingbridge continued. “Mr. and Mrs. Freeman and Josh suffered some broken bones, but are expected to recover completely. The other driver also had minor injuries.” He cleared his throat. “However, I’m sad to say that Amelia was killed on impact.”

  Tears poured down my cheeks as I hugged Kristy, and then Logan. “It’s not possible,” I sobbed into Logan’s shoulder. “I just saw her yesterday.”

  All the color had drained from Logan’s face.

  Now the auditorium really did sound like a funeral. Students were crying openly, and holding each other.

  “Death is always a shock,” Mr. Kingbridge continued. “But when it comes to someone so young and full of life, it’s almost too much to bear. Amelia will be greatly missed and I know all of our hearts go out to the Freeman family.” He dug in the pocket of his suit for a handkerchief, then wiped at his own eyes and blew his nose.

  Mrs. Amer touched Mr. Kingbridge on the shoulder, then turned to face the assembly. “Classes will continue today, but anyone who feels the need to go home may do so if their parents come to school to pick them up. For those of you who wish to stay, but feel the need to talk to someone, I’ve arranged for grief counselors to be on call in the guidance office. This is a devastating time for all of us. Please don’t be afraid to ask for help.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Amer,” Mr. Kingbridge said. “One last thing. Funeral services for Amelia will be held on Monday at eleven A.M. at the First Methodist Church. Any student who wishes to attend will be excused from class.”

  Even after Mr. Kingbridge and Mrs. Amer left the stage, no one moved. The thought of going to class seemed absurd. But there really wasn’t anything we could do except cry. For Amelia. For her family. And for ourselves.

  We (practically every member of the Baby-sitters Club) sat in the auditorium for nearly an hour. Every few minutes one of us would break down and cry. It just didn’t seem possible that something so awful could have happened to someone our age, someone we knew.

  When I finally started to stand up, Kristy clutched my hand and whispered, “Please don’t go. Not yet.”

  Somehow I understood exactly what Kristy was feeling. Being confronted with the fact that somebody could be alive one minute and gone the next made us want to hold on tightly to our friends and family.

  I think the only class I attended that day was English, with Mrs. Simon.

  Gordon Brown was sitting by my desk, waiting for me when I came into the classroom. “Is Barbara here?” I whispered, slipping into my seat.

  Gordon’s eyes were swollen and rimmed with red. He shook his head sadly. “No, but I’m not surprised. Barbara is Amelia’s best friend…. I guess I should say, was.”

  Mrs. Simon, who usually is so confident and together, was subdued and quiet. She spent the first few minutes of class walking around the room and talking to each of us individually. When she came to Gordon and me, she squeezed my hand and said to the class, “Why don’t we pull our desks in a circle and talk about what has happened?”

  My eyes immediately filled with tears.

  “I can’t believe some drunk just killed her, and he’s still alive,” Jeff Cummings grumbled from across the circle. He was usually pretty quiet but today he seemed angry. “It’s just not fair.”

  “I think what’s hardest to accept,” I said, trying to keep my voice from breaking, “is that we’ll never see Amelia again. Death is so, so final.”

  Mrs. Simon pursed her lips. I could see she was trying not to cry, too. “It does seem that way. But remember, Mary Anne, Amelia will live on in our memories.”

  That made me think of the last image I had of Amelia. The moment when she was leaving my house and paused to smile at me over her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the excitement at our meeting and her grin seemed to stretch from ear to ear. Amelia was so full of joy and life. How could she be gone?

  I walked the halls that day, seeing life in a new scary light. My world, which had seemed so solid and comfortable, felt as if it had been hit by an earthquake. My emotions flipped from sadness to fear to despair as I realized that, if someone as wonderful as Amelia could be taken from us this way, so could anyone. At any moment. And for no reason.

  When the last bell had finally rung, and I’d said good-bye to Logan and Kristy and my other friends, I trudged home feeling like the oldest person on the planet.

  Going to the mailbox is usually one of my favorite things to do — it holds so much promise. There can be one of my magazines, a fun catalogue, an announcement that I’ve won the lottery, or best of all, a letter from a friend.

  On Thursday afternoon, I stopped at the mailbox as usual, but I barely glanced at the letters and magazines inside. I felt depressed.

  I needed to talk to someone in my family. Dad and Sharon weren’t home, and because of the three-hour time difference, I had to wait until six to call Dawn. So I walked into the living room and sat on the couch, staring at the unlit fireplace.

  Tigger padded down the stairs and hopped into my lap, knocking the mail onto the floor.

  “Mousekins, you naughty boy,” I murmured, scratching him between the ears (his favorite spot). “You’ve been sleeping on my pillow upstairs, haven’t you?”

  His eyelids dropped to half-mast and he tilted his pink nose upward — it looked as if he were smiling at me. I continued to tickle him between the ears as I reached for the mail. The first letter I picked up was postmarked Palo City, California.

  “Dawn!” I gasped. “She wrote me.”

  The letter was nice and thick, five pages front and back. If I couldn’t talk to my stepsister and best friend, reading a letter from he
r was the next best thing.

  Dawn wrote that Tuesday was a sunny, warmish day in California (which was a little hard to imagine, since there was still snow on the ground in Connecticut). The DeWitt boys, dressed in costumes, had been waiting for her in the front yard….

  “Hold, fair lady!” Erick yelled, hopping from behind a palm tree. “I am ready to slay yon dragon and bring you his head.”

  “Slay yon dragon!” Dawn gasped, putting one hand to her heart. “But who are you, sir?”

  “I am Sir Launcelot!” Erick swept his long plastic sword in a grand motion and bowed. “At your service!”

  When he bowed, the visor of his knight helmet fell shut over his eyes. As he struggled to adjust it, his armor came undone on the right shoulder and his chest plate flopped down across his tummy. Dawn had to turn away so Erick wouldn’t see her laughing. When she looked back, she was met by a different kind of knight, from another century.

  “Howdy, pardner!” Ryan cried, stepping out from behind another palm tree. He was astride his stick horse, the reins clutched in one hand and a silvery cap gun in the other. “I’m rescuing this here lady. Back off, knight!”

  “Butt out, cowboy!” Erick yelled, jerking his visor up again, so he could see.

  “Do you want me to fill you full of holes?” Ryan asked.

  “I’ll turn you into shish kabob,” Erick shot back.

  That’s when Dawn held out her hands in a T. “Time! Time out!”

  The boys lowered their weapons. “What’s wrong?” Ryan asked innocently.

  Dawn folded her arms across her chest. “First of all, you know I don’t like guns, even toy guns. When I’m with you, I’d prefer that you didn’t play with them.”

  Ryan’s face fell. “Aw, this is my new Christmas present. I want to play with it.”

  Thinking fast, Dawn said, “But I’d really like to see your other presents, too. I know you got more, because I saw your tree. The gifts were stacked so high, they practically touched the ceiling.”

  Erick grabbed Dawn by the hand. “Come to my room. I’ll show you mine.”

  Ryan grabbed her other arm. “Mine first.”

  “No, mine!” Erick cried, with a tug of Dawn’s arm.

  “Mine!” Ryan yanked back.

  “Hey!” Dawn gasped. “Take it easy!”

  “What are you boys doing?” Cynthia DeWitt called from the front porch. “Trying to tear Dawn in two? Could you at least wait till I’ve left the house? Otherwise she’ll change her mind and go home.”

  “Hi, Cynthia,” Dawn called. “Happy New Year.”

  Normally we don’t call our clients by their first names, but Cynthia DeWitt insists. She’s an actress, and she looks like one: tall and slender, with huge brown eyes and a dazzling smile. Cynthia has done a ton of TV commercials. Toothpaste, soda, dish detergent, aspirin — you name it, she’s sold it.

  “Come inside before the Knights of the Kitchen Table tear you to pieces,” Cynthia said, waving Dawn into her living room.

  The DeWitts’ living room is amazing. It’s covered from floor to ceiling in photographs. There are Cynthia’s and Mr. DeWitt’s wedding shots, and honeymoon photos from the Far East. There are pictures of Cynthia in various costumes. Every family campout or trip is captured on film and framed in that room, too.

  “I have an audition at Friedson/Alper Casting offices, and then I’ll be doing a voice-over at Arctic Air Studios.” Cynthia handed Dawn a piece of paper with the phone numbers on it. “I shouldn’t be gone longer than a few hours, but in case I’m running late, I’ve made a quiche. Could you pop it in the oven around six?”

  “Sure,” Dawn said.

  Cynthia turned to check her reflection in the mirror over the mantel. She adjusted the collar on her plaid blouse and smoothed her skirt. “This audition is for an aspirin commercial. What do you think? Do I look like a pleasant third-grade teacher with a headache?” Cynthia put one hand to her temple and winced.

  “Perfect.” Dawn laughed. “You’ll land the part for sure.”

  “Thanks.” Cynthia gave her hair one last pat, then turned to shout out the front door, “Boys, I’m leaving. You better give me a hug. For luck.”

  “Good luck, my lady,” Erick the knight cried, galloping toward his mom.

  “Hey, that’s no lady!” Ryan the cowboy shouted. “That’s my mother.”

  “Comedians.” Cynthia chuckled as she hugged the two boys. “Everyone in this house is a comedian.”

  Then Cynthia planted big red kisses on the boys’ foreheads, hopped in her Jeep Cherokee, and drove off. Dawn felt exhausted from the commotion, and her sitting job had just begun.

  Once they were inside the house, Ryan and Erick drew straws to see who would show Dawn his toys first. Erick won. But as soon he had shown her his castle and all the lords and ladies who lived there, he was ready to move on to something more fun. However, Ryan still wanted to show Dawn his toys.

  “Dawn, could I go over to Corey McKinsey’s house?” Erick asked.

  Corey lives a block and a half away from the DeWitts. Erick often plays at his house and vice versa.

  “I should phone Corey’s mom first,” Dawn replied.

  “It’s okay. Mom already called her,” Erick said. “She said they’d be home all afternoon.”

  Dawn checked the clock. “Okay. You can go over for half an hour. And remember to call me as soon as you get to the McKinseys’.”

  After Erick left, Ryan eagerly displayed his treasures. Besides the cowboy outfit, he had received a Gator Golf game, a remote-controlled robot, and a new Super Nintendo game.

  “Your parents must have cleaned out the toy store,” Dawn said in amazement.

  Ryan pushed his red cowboy hat off his forehead and nodded eagerly. “I’m already starting my list for next year.”

  The two of them had played only a couple of rounds of Gator Golf when Dawn heard the front door bang open. Moments later a very distraught Erick appeared in the bedroom.

  “What’s the matter?” Dawn gasped, running to him.

  Eric was crying so hard he could hardly talk. He held out his hand. His palm was covered with blood. “I fell,” he sobbed. “On a nail, I think. It hurts.”

  “Oh, my gosh!” Ryan cried, pointing to the blood dripping on the floor. “He’s bleeding to death. Erick’s bleeding! What do we do?”

  Dawn took a deep breath, silently ordering herself to remain calm. The cut looked awful, but the last thing she wanted to do was frighten Erick by overreacting.

  “Come on, Erick,” she said, cupping her hand under his and gently leading him to the bathroom. “Let’s wash that off. Then we can take a closer look at it.”

  “Am I going to die?” Erick asked through little hiccuping sobs.

  “No, you are not going to die,” Dawn said as she ran the palm of his hand under cold water. When the blood cleared, she could see where the nail had punctured his palm. “But you’re right, you did fall on a nail.”

  “It was a huge nail,” Erick said, sniffing.

  “You are so brave,” she said, speaking in her most calming voice. Then over her shoulder she called to Ryan, who was watching from the bathroom door, pale with fright. “Ryan? Would you please find the first-aid kit? I think it’s in that cupboard by the door.”

  Ryan nodded and did what he was told. “Do you want a Band-Aid?” he asked, setting the box on the bathroom counter.

  “Eventually,” Dawn said. “First we want to make sure the bleeding’s stopped.” She found a large gauze pad and pressed it against Erick’s palm. “I’m going to raise your arm above your head,” she explained to Erick, “because we need to stop the bleeding. Then we can put a Band-Aid on it.”

  Luckily Dawn has taken a first-aid course. All of us have. It was Kristy’s idea, and the information we learned has come in handy more than once for all of us in the Baby-sitters Club.

  Dawn told Erick to sit on a chair in the kitchen. He had finally stopped crying but was still shaken by the accid
ent. Ryan followed, carrying the first-aid kit.

  “Ryan, you’re being a great helper,” Dawn said. “Will you do me one more favor?”

  “Do you want me to call an ambulance?” Ryan asked, his eyes still large with fear. “I can dial nine-one-one.”

  “I don’t think an ambulance will be necessary,” Dawn answered, hiding a smile. “But I think your brother could use a glass of juice. He’s had a shock.”

  “All right.” Ryan bolted for the refrigerator.

  “Okay, Erick.” Dawn handed him a tissue to wipe his tears and blow his nose. “Tell me exactly what happened and where.”

  He had calmed down a little and could talk more clearly. “I was going to Corey’s and I decided to take the shortcut through that vacant lot by the Huffmans’.”

  Dawn nodded. “I know that spot. It’s a disaster. Some people throw their trash there.”

  Erick nodded. “It’s a total garbage dump. I was jumping over a pile of boards in the middle, and I guess I caught my shoe on a piece of wire. The next thing I knew I was falling forward. I put out my arms, and something jabbed into my hand. A big nail.”

  “I’ll bet it was a rusty nail,” Dawn murmured.

  Erick nodded.

  “Whoever owns that lot ought to be sued or something,” Dawn grumbled. “It’s a dangerous eyesore in the middle of a great neighborhood. I’m not surprised you got hurt.”

  Dawn lowered Erick’s arm. The bleeding had stopped, but the puncture looked bad. She thought Erick would probably need a tetanus shot, if he hadn’t had one recently.

  Erick watched her face as she examined his wound. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “The bleeding has stopped, but I’m a little concerned about that nail. If it was rusty, the cut could become infected.” Dawn put a Band-Aid on Erick’s palm. “I think your doctor ought to take a look at this.”

  “A doctor?” Erick gulped.

  Dawn nodded. “Just to be on the safe side.”

  Ryan helped Dawn stack some books on the table so Erick could keep his hand elevated. Then Dawn gave the boys more juice and some saltine crackers. She remembered her mother used to feed her saltines when she was sick.