Mary Anne and the Memory Garden

  By Sunday night, I felt drained. I didn’t even have enough energy to read a book or watch TV. I fell into bed and was asleep within minutes.

  On Monday, after I’d finally chosen my outfit for the funeral, Sharon drove me to school. The funeral was at eleven. Lots of kids were planning to go to their first three classes, then walk to the First Methodist Church, which was only a few blocks from SMS.

  At school, the bells rang indicating the beginning and ending of classes, just like any other day. But no one was acting as though it were a normal day. Most of the students milled around in the halls, waiting.

  I went to Mr. Blake’s homeroom, and part of another class, but I was having trouble concentrating on anything but the funeral.

  As eleven o’clock drew closer, I started to feel butterflies in my stomach. It was the same feeling I had whenever I was supposed to give a report in front of class — major fear.

  I think I was afraid of doing something really embarrassing or wrong at the funeral. What if I suddenly lost control and couldn’t stop weeping? What if I fainted?

  By ten o’clock, I’d worked myself into such a panic about attending the funeral and making a fool of myself in front of the entire student body that I decided I needed to talk to someone about it. I made myself go down to the guidance office the next period, where I asked to speak to a grief counselor.

  A woman named Kathleen listened carefully as I described my fears. She had warm, brown eyes and a pleasant face. I told her that I had been to a funeral before but never for someone my own age. I was afraid how I might react. When I stopped talking, she took my hand and held it.

  “All of those fears are normal,” Kathleen assured me. “You’re not sure how you should behave at a friend’s funeral, and you’re embarrassed about it. Most of the students at this school probably haven’t attended a funeral before. They’re all feeling as awkward and worried as you are.”

  Talking to Kathleen did make me feel a little better about the funeral. But nothing could have prepared me for what lay ahead.

  At ten-thirty, I met Logan and Kristy at my locker. Claudia, Stacey, Abby, Mallory, and Jessi joined us in the schoolyard, along with everyone else at SMS. The entire student body and all of the teachers walked quietly to the First Methodist Church. It must have been an impressive sight to see so many kids, dressed in somber colors, moving quietly through the streets of Stoneybrook.

  We could hear organ music as we climbed the steps to the church entrance. The rich scent of roses filled the church. In the vestibule stood an easel holding a framed photo of Amelia. It was her class picture. I realized I had a wallet-size version in my purse.

  Kristy and I reached for each other’s hands. A tight knot formed in my chest. “Look how beautiful she is,” I whispered to Kristy and Logan.

  Logan nodded sadly. When we entered the sanctuary and I saw the mahogany coffin — Amelia’s coffin — surrounded by pink and white flowers, my heart did a flip-flop.

  For a second my knees went wobbly. I was glad Logan was beside me. He caught my elbow and guided me toward an empty pew five rows from the front of the church.

  The eight of us filled half a row. No one spoke. We sat numbly, staring at the coffin as the other mourners filed into pews around us. When the church was filled, more people found places to stand by the windows. They jammed the aisles and overflowed onto the sidewalks outside. It felt good to know Amelia had had so many friends.

  I read later in the Stoneybrook News that over a thousand people attended Amelia’s funeral, including representatives from Students Against Driving Drunk. They’d come from Stamford to show their support for the Freemans.

  At ten after eleven, Reverend Downey appeared, along with the Freeman family. Seeing them was almost too much to bear. They still showed the effects of the accident. Josh’s arm was in a cast, and his face was covered with bruises. Mr. Freeman had a large bandage on his forehead, and Mrs. Freeman was on crutches. They looked as if the world had defeated them.

  When they were seated, Reverend Downey began the service. “We gather here today to celebrate the memory of Amelia Louise Freeman.”

  Louise. It occurred to me that I had never known Amelia’s middle name. I knew she was thirteen and that her birthday was in September, but not that her middle name was Louise.

  Reverend Downey mentioned many other things about Amelia that I’d never heard before. I hadn’t known that she played the piano. I never knew her favorite movie had been The Secret Garden. Or that she had a stuffed rabbit named Nibs that she had slept with since she was a baby.

  And now I would never know any more about her, except what I heard from other people.

  The ache in my chest spread, filling my body with a sadness. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

  Reverend Downey tried to focus the service on remembering happy days with Amelia. But all I could think about was the unfairness of life.

  How was it possible that an irresponsible drunk could cause an accident, kill a perfectly innocent girl — and walk away almost without a scratch? There seemed to be no justice in the world.

  When the service finally ended, a violinist played “Amazing Grace” from the rear of the church. It was the most haunting sound I ever heard.

  As the violinist played, I looked around the church. So many young faces. And each shining face streaked with tears.

  “Good-bye,” I whispered when the last notes faded away. “I’ll really miss you.”

  “Barbara’s back,” Stacey whispered to me Tuesday morning. “I saw her talking to Josh before homeroom.”

  “Did you say anything to her?” I asked.

  Stacey shook her head. “I didn’t know what to say. They were both standing there. I mean, do I tell Josh I’m sorry about Amelia, and then say the same thing to Barbara?”

  “So what did you do?”

  Stacey stared at the floor. “I turned and walked the other way.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, patting her on the arm. “They probably didn’t notice.”

  “They had to,” Stacey said. “I think every student in homeroom either did an about face or pretended not to see them. It was pretty obvious.”

  “Poor Josh and Barbara,” I replied.

  “I know,” Stacey said with a grimace. “I promise I won’t do it again. The next time I run into them, I’ll at least say hi.”

  I decided to do more than that. I’d talk to them. But my chance came before I was totally prepared.

  Just as I was about to enter math class, I spotted Josh in the hall. He seemed so alone and dejected.

  “Josh!” I called. “Wait up.”

  He looked up at me, but his expression didn’t change.

  “How are you doing?” I asked, touching his shoulder.

  Josh just shrugged.

  I took a deep breath and spoke really fast. “Josh, I just want you to know how sorry I am about your sister. Everyone liked her, and we’re all going to miss her.”

  Josh stared at me for a few moments, his blue eyes clouded with sadness. Then he burst into tears. I was so startled, I didn’t know what to do. His books tumbled to the floor but he didn’t seem to notice. He just stood in the middle of the hall, sobbing.

  I glanced nervously around for a teacher or counselor, somebody to help me. Even though the bell hadn’t rung, the halls were deserted.

  “Josh,” I said, picking up his books and gently taking him by the arm. “Do you want to talk to Mrs. Amer?”

  Josh shook his head, continuing to sob.

  That did it. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him tight. It was the best thing I could do. Even after the bell rang, we stood there like that.

  Finally Josh raised his head. “I think I better go home,” he managed to say.

  I ushered Josh to the front office and sat with him while the secretary called his mother.

  Ten minutes later, his mother picked him up. Josh, who hadn’t said a word while we waited, turned his tear-streaked face to me and
whispered, “Thanks, Mary Anne.”

  My heart ached for Josh. Still, I was glad that I was able to be there for him. If I couldn’t help Amelia, at least I had helped her brother.

  I asked the secretary for a late pass and as I headed for my next class, I thought about what Sharon had told me: “Life goes on.” It was true. Today the students were dressed in their usual bright, colorful clothes. The grief counselors were gone. Classes were back to normal.

  Or at least they appeared to be normal. In Mrs. Simon’s English class, we were all acutely aware of Amelia’s absence. Hers was the only empty desk in the room. And sitting next to it was Barbara Hirsch.

  “Class,” Mrs. Simon said as she passed out paper, “I thought, rather than starting with a specific play, we would read some of Shakespeare’s wonderful speeches. The opening speech from Henry V is a perfect introduction to our visit with Mr. Bill.”

  Mrs. Simon paused at Barbara’s desk and asked her how she was doing.

  “Not very well,” Barbara answered truthfully. “I think I’m still in shock.”

  Mrs. Simon patted Barbara’s shoulder gently. “Just let me know if you want to talk.”

  Barbara nodded.

  Then Mrs. Simon stepped to the front of the class and explained a few of the phrases that we would be hearing in the first speech. “Our narrator, or Chorus as he is called in the play, asks us to use our imagination to picture everything that happens within ‘this wooden O.’ Does anyone know what he means by that — a wooden O?”

  I automatically looked toward Amelia’s desk. So did a few other students. She, of any of us, would have known the answer.

  When no one raised a hand, Mrs. Simon explained, “He’s referring to Shakespeare’s theatre, the Globe Theatre, which was essentially a three-story wooden structure in the shape of an O.”

  She pointed to a painting of the Globe Theatre, then unveiled a dollhouse-size model on her desk.

  After giving us a chance to come to her desk and look the model over, Mrs. Simon showed us a costume doublet she said had been worn by a famous actor from a theatre company that used to be in Connecticut. By the time she was ready to read the speech, we were prepared to listen. She asked us to close our eyes and then she began.

  “Oh, for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention …”

  Pictures of kings and knights in armor, astride beautiful horses on the fields of France, filled my brain, replacing all the sad thoughts that had been there. It felt wonderful just to relax and imagine.

  Ten minutes before the class came to an end, Mrs. Simon told us to split into our groups and work on our projects. Then she called Barbara, Gordon, and me up to her desk.

  “I realize that this is a difficult time for you,” she said, perching on the corner of her desk. “If you would like to change your project to something less taxing, for three people, that would be fine with me.”

  Gordon looked at Barbara, and then at me. I shook my head. “No,” I said to Mrs. Simon. “We have a great project that’s filled with a lot of Amelia’s ideas.”

  Barbara pursed her lips. “I think we should do it for Amelia.”

  Gordon agreed.

  That’s when I made my suggestion. “I propose that we dedicate our project to Amelia.”

  “What a splendid idea!” Mrs. Simon said. Gordon agreed.

  Barbara smiled as her eyes filled with tears. “That’s a really nice thought, Mary Anne. I second it.”

  It was settled. I felt good that we would be able to create our own small memorial to our friend.

  By the time I reached the cafeteria, I was actually smiling. Logan met me in the lunch line, and I told him what my group had decided to do.

  “That’s a great idea,” he said. “Maybe it will help you feel better.” He gestured with his thumb toward the table where Kristy was sitting. “I wish something would make Kristy feel better. She’s obsessed with this drunk driver and what he did.”

  As if in response to his words, Kristy pounded the cafeteria table with her fist. I couldn’t hear what she was saying to Claudia, but it was obvious that Kristy was upset and angry about something.

  Logan and I moved down the cafeteria line, where we joined Abby, who announced in a loud voice, “Oh look, folks, it’s my favorite food — mystery meat on toast.”

  I decided to skip the main course and have a chef’s salad instead. Logan opted for a carton of yogurt. Abby reluctantly chose the chicken noodle soup. “They probably put mystery meat in here, too,” she declared grumpily. “Let’s hope I don’t have a reaction.” (I told you she’s allergic to everything.)

  “He’s a cold-blooded murderer,” Kristy was saying as we arrived at the table.

  “Let me guess,” Abby said. “We’re talking about that drunk.”

  Kristy hit the table again. “He makes me so mad. I just wish there was something I could do about it.”

  “Maybe there is something we can do,” I said slowly. An idea that had been floating in the back of my mind suddenly took shape. “Maybe we could start our own chapter of Students Against Driving Drunk.”

  Kristy froze with her mouth half open and her finger pointing in mid-air. She turned slowly to face me, her eyes wide.

  “You’re right!” she whispered. “They fight drunk driving, don’t they?”

  “It would be pretty easy to start up,” Logan added. “They have a number in the book. You just call them and ask how to do it.”

  “Our club would be huge,” Kristy said, opening her arms wide. “There must have been three hundred students at the funeral. I bet at least half of them would like to do something about drunk drivers.”

  “Uh-oh,” Claudia murmured, taking a sip of her cola. “Kristy’s getting that look in her eye again. That means we’re going to be working day and night on her new project.”

  Kristy actually grinned at that. “It’ll be worth it. Just think, Claud, if we were able to put more of these drunks behind bars, then they’d be off the streets. And more lives would be saved.”

  Stacey arrived at our table, carrying a tray with salad and apple slices.

  “You’re just in time to join Kristy’s new club,” Abby greeted her.

  “New club?” Stacey repeated.

  “This isn’t a baby-sitting club,” Kristy explained, her voice rising with excitement. “This is a club to keep drunk drivers off the streets. We’re starting our own chapter of Students Against Driving Drunk.”

  “Sign me up,” Stacey said firmly.

  “Now all we need is the school’s approval,” I said.

  “There’s one of the guidance counselors.” Logan pointed to Mr. Seitz, a blond man setting his empty tray in the dirty dish rack. “Why don’t you talk to him?”

  Kristy didn’t hesitate. She was out of her seat and across the cafeteria like a shot. I hurried to join her.

  Mr. Seitz listened carefully to our idea. “I’m all for it,” he said. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Amer, and we’ll contact the national office and ask them to send some of their literature.”

  For the remainder of the lunch period, Kristy talked nonstop about the new club — how to publicize it, when to have our first meeting, what the club could accomplish. The ideas just poured out of her.

  I was thrilled. It looked as if the old Kristy Thomas might be back.

  A letter from Dawn. Hooray! I raced from the mailbox into the house, tore open the envelope, and paused. Something very furry was rubbing around my ankles.

  “Tigger, I didn’t say hello to you.” I scooped him into my arms and buried my face in his fur. “Dawn wrote us a letter. Shall we read it together?”

  Tigger raised his nose to look at me, then rubbed his face along my chin.

  “I take that as a yes,” I said, nuzzling him between the ears. His eyelids dropped to half mast and I knew if Tigger could talk, he would be purring, “Heaven.”

  I carried Tigger, in his blissful kitten state, into the kitchen and cuddled him while I brewed a
cup of tea. I intended to make the reading of this letter a real event. Dawn and I had talked on the phone several times since Amelia’s death. We’d shared a lot of memories of Amelia and shed quite a few tears. Those had been sad conversations. I was hoping her letter held cheery news.

  When the water was boiling, I placed two of Sharon’s granola cookies, along with several apple slices, on a china plate and carried it into the living room.

  Tigger and I curled up in the armchair and shared a cookie as I carefully unfolded Dawn’s letter.

  This one continued the saga of the dangerous lot. It involved Sunny Winslow, Dawn’s best friend in California. I should tell you a little about Sunny. She has strawberry blonde hair and freckles across her upturned nose, and a great tan. Sunny’s a health food nut like Dawn. But she’s more like Kristy in personality — outgoing, fun, and independent — which makes her the perfect person to head the We ♥ Kids Club.

  The We ♥ Kids Club is a baby-sitting club, but it isn’t much like ours. The BSC has strict rules and regulations. They don’t. We meet regularly three times a week at exactly the same time. They meet when they feel like it (though they do try to have at least one meeting a week). We have officers and keep a notebook. They don’t. They do have an appointment book and they do use Kid-Kits. But that’s about it.

  Anyway, Dawn was looking after Stephie Robertson, who’s eight, and Sunny was next door sitting for the Austin girls, five-year-old Clover and eight-year-old Daffodil. It was another gorgeous day in California, so Dawn phoned Sunny at the Austins’.

  “It’s too great a day to stay inside,” she declared. “Why don’t we take the kids for a walk?”

  “You don’t have to twist my arm,” Sunny replied. “Meet you outside in two minutes.”

  The two minutes was to allow the Austin kids time to go to the bathroom, and to smear on sunblock.

  Dawn used the time to make sure she had all of Stephie’s medical supplies. Stephie has asthma, just like Abby. She goes through periods when her bronchial tubes close up, and she has trouble breathing. She needs her inhalator with her at all times, as well as her pills, just in case she has an asthma attack. Sometimes an asthma attack can be brought on by too much physical exertion, but a person can even have one while he sleeps!