Mary Anne and the Memory Garden

  “Yo! Dawn!” Sunny called from the front lawn a few minutes later. “We don’t have all day!”

  Dawn tucked Stephie’s medicine into her fanny pack along with a small carton of juice, so Stephie could swallow her pills if she did have an attack.

  “All right,” Dawn said as they stepped outside. “Is everyone ready for our power walk?”

  “Let’s do it,” Sunny said, marching toward the sidewalk. Clover and Daffodil had to jog to keep up with her.

  Although Daffodil is the older of the two Austins, she’s quieter and less physical than her sister. Clover is a powerhouse of energy. She barrels through life at the top of her lungs.

  Clover charged in front of Sunny, doing cartwheels down the sidewalk. Then she hopped backward on one foot.

  As the group passed the vacant lot, Dawn called out a warning. “Stay clear of that lot, everyone. Erick hurt his hand so badly he had to get a tetanus shot.”

  “A shot?” Clover’s eyes grew huge and she carefully moved to the far side of the sidewalk, as if the weeds might reach out and grab her.

  “Look!” Daffodil pointed to the opposite corner of the lot. “Someone dumped their garbage here.” She leaned forward, squinting at the remnants of a green trash bag. “There’s old soup cans, and Kleenex and — ew, gross! some stinky old diapers.” She pinched her nose. “P.U.”

  “I want to see,” Stephie said, running ahead to join her friend. “Yuck!”

  “Look over there.” Daffodil pointed nervously at a pile of tree limbs. “Something’s moving in there.”

  “Careful, kids,” Dawn cautioned as she jogged up beside Daffodil. “It could be a coyote, or a raccoon, or a —”

  “Cat!” everyone screamed as a scrawny orange-and-white cat bolted across the field.

  Stephie started to make weird snorting sounds and for a second Dawn was afraid she was having an asthma attack. But she was having a giggle attack. So were Clover and Daffodil. The three girls were bent over, holding their stomachs, laughing.

  Normally Dawn would have joined in but the sight of the mounds of trash made her lose her sense of humor. “I can’t believe how ugly this lot is.”

  “It’s awful.” Sunny shook her head in disgust. “And it’s a real health hazard.”

  “I wish there were something we could do about it,” Dawn complained, folding her arms across her chest. “But I don’t even know who owns it.”

  “Maybe someone could put a fence around it,” Daffodil suggested. “A really high one, so you wouldn’t see the garbage.”

  “Someone should dig a deep, deep hole,” Clover said. “Then all the garbage would just fall in.”

  “I wish this lot were a garden,” Stephie murmured. “Like the one in The Secret Garden. Filled with beautiful flowers.”

  Dawn’s eyes grew as big as saucers. She turned to Sunny and said, “A garden. What a great idea!”

  “And easy to do.”

  Sunny was already making plans. “We would just need to clear away the debris, turn over the soil, and start planting seeds.”

  “Can I help?” Stephie asked. “I’ve always wanted a garden.”

  “Of course you can,” Dawn said. “Everybody can help — Clover, Daffodil, the Clune girls. Maybe we can even talk Ryan and Erick DeWitt into helping.”

  The rest of the walk was a nonstop brainstorming session, with everyone, kids and sitters alike, tossing in ideas.

  After their sitting jobs were over, Sunny stayed at Dawn’s and they continued to make plans.

  “First on our list is to find out the owner’s name and address,” Sunny said. “We’ll talk to our parents and see if they can help us.”

  “Then we’ll write him a straightforward letter,” Dawn added. “Making sure not to insult him, but letting him know that the lot could be a health hazard if we don’t clean it up.”

  Dawn’s dad was enthusiastic about their project. He promptly made a few phone calls and in less than an hour, they had the owner’s name, James L. Cruickshank, and his address, which was in Tucson.

  Dawn typed the letter on her dad’s computer, and fired it off to Arizona that very night.

  It’s amazing what you can do if you really put your mind to it. Sunny and Dawn contacted the other members of the We ♥ Kids Club, and together they started a phone chain, calling all the kids in the neighborhood.

  Over the next few days, Dawn and Sunny gathered cleanup supplies, which consisted of thick gloves, rakes, and metal garbage cans. Each kid who’d been contacted was asked to bring one sturdy garbage bag to the lot on Friday afternoon.

  Waiting for a letter to arrive can be agony. Dawn checked her mailbox every day, hoping to find a response from Mr. Cruickshank. And every day Sunny would call and have the same conversation with Dawn.

  “Did he write?”

  “No.”

  “Did he call?”

  “Nope.”

  “Shoot. Well, maybe tomorrow.”

  By Friday afternoon, the scheduled day for the cleanup, they still hadn’t heard a peep from Mr. Cruickshank.

  At three-thirty, ten kids and their sitters were gathered on the sidewalk bordering the dirt lot. Dawn and Sunny realized they had to make a decision.

  “I say we go ahead and start working,” Dawn said firmly. “What’s Mr. Cruickshank going to do — tell us to put the garbage back?”

  “You’re right,” Sunny agreed. “How could he possibly object to a cleanup?”

  Dawn blew the lifeguard whistle hanging from a blue cord around her neck. “All right, campers, we’re going to form a line from the trash to the can. The sitters will pick up trash that is safe to handle and pass it to the kid next to them, who will pass it to the next kid — till it reaches the trash bag. Ready? Let’s do it!”

  Dawn’s plan worked like a charm. Dawn and Sunny patrolled the lot, using heavy leather work gloves to pick up unsafe trash, such as boards with nails, sharp can lids, and broken glass. The other sitters gathered up the easy garbage, which passed from kid to kid into the waiting trash bags.

  It couldn’t have been a more orderly cleanup. They filled eighty-five giant trash bags that weekend. Dawn’s stepmom Carol helped them take fifteen loads to the city dump. By Sunday night, Dawn’s hands were blistered from raking and her back ached from hauling. But she didn’t care.

  Dawn ended her letter in triumph.

  Brring!

  Kristy dove for the phone on Watson’s desk. “Students Against Driving Drunk, this is Kristy.”

  “Oops!” a voice on the other end of the line said. “I-I was looking for Sam Thomas. I think I must have —”

  “Don’t hang up,” Kristy exclaimed. “This is Sam’s house. It’s also the headquarters for the Stoneybrook Chapter of S.A.D.D.”

  Headquarters was right. Watson had given Kristy the run of his home office while we launched the S.A.D.D. membership drive. We had a computer, a copier, a fax machine, and a file cabinet at our disposal.

  It was incredible how quickly it had all come together. Mr. Seitz ordered a thousand brochures from the S.A.D.D. national office, and Mr. Kingbridge agreed to allow Stoneybrook Middle School to pay for the shipping.

  Logan volunteered to distribute the brochures at a card table set up in front of the school entrance. He only had to sit there for a few days, because the brochures were snatched up in record time.

  The phone rang again. This time the call was for S.A.D.D.

  Kristy gave me a thumbs-up. “The first meeting will be next week,” she told the caller. “I posted a sign-up sheet outside the main office today…. Great! I’ll see you there, then.” Kristy hung up the phone and pumped her fist in the air. “Yes!”

  “That’s the fifth call today,” I said, checking my watch. “And we’ve only been home fifteen minutes. At this rate we’re going to have a packed meeting.”

  Kristy nodded. “The brochures are working and —” Kristy spun in Watson’s swivel chair and picked up a folded-up newspaper. “Take a look at this.”
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  She handed me the latest issue of the SMS Express.

  “Whoa,” I gasped. “Emily gave us the entire front page.”

  Emily Bernstein is the editor of our school paper. She’s a great person, but sometimes she can be a little stingy with her column space. Not that day.

  “She did it for Amelia,” Kristy explained. “She also told me to put her name on the list. She wants to be the first member of S.A.D.D.”

  I stared at the paper. The image of Amelia holding her stuffed rabbit, Nibs, smiled at me from the center of the page. Under the picture was an article titled, “Let’s Do It for Amelia!” by Kristy Thomas.

  I read the opening paragraph out loud.

  “On January fourth, our friend, Amelia Freeman, became one of the more than seventeen thousand people killed each year by drunk drivers. It was a terrible tragedy, and one that could have been prevented. Students Against Driving Drunk is an organization dedicated to the proposition that kids can make a difference.”

  Brrring!

  While Kristy answered the phone, I read the rest of her article. It was a good one, focusing on the importance of educating ourselves and our friends about the deadly combination of alcohol and cars, and what we could do to prevent more tragedies from occurring. The first meeting was slated for Friday. Kristy urged everyone to show their support by attending. The article ended with her new slogan, “Let’s do it for Amelia!”

  “Amelia,” I murmured. As I stared down at her face, a feeling of aching sadness overwhelmed me. Suddenly I realized tears were streaming down my cheeks.

  Kristy didn’t notice. She was too busy working the phone, spreading the word about S.A.D.D.

  On Thursday Mr. Kingbridge let us make a short speech over the P.A. system during homeroom. Actually, Kristy spoke. (I told you I was shy.)

  Kristy’s sign-up sheet had been posted that morning and by lunchtime, the list was full.

  “Mary Anne, check this out,” Claudia called to me on our way to the cafeteria. “So many people signed up for S.A.D.D. they had to post another sheet.”

  “Kristy will be thrilled,” I said. “We better think about finding a bigger room for the meeting.”

  Claudia shook her head in amazement. “This just goes to show you. Kids are mad and want to do something about it.”

  Mad was right. The announcement of the S.A.D.D. meeting had prompted another round of intense discussion about drunk drivers. Everywhere I turned — in the halls, at the cafeteria, on the front steps — kids were talking about it.

  “A drunk driver is as much a criminal as someone who takes a gun and shoots someone,” Brian Hall was saying at lunch.

  No one seemed to disagree with him.

  That afternoon in gym class, I heard one sad story after another about friends and relatives who’d had collisions with drunk drivers. It was depressing.

  By late afternoon, a third sign-up sheet had been filled.

  Kristy was on cloud nine. I should have been, too, but for some reason, I wasn’t. I just felt empty.

  Logan noticed it on the way home from school. “Is something wrong?” he asked, cocking his head to look in my face. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  “I feel sort of blue,” I confessed.

  “Was it math class?” he asked. “Did you have a test or something?”

  “Actually it’s funny you should ask,” I said. “We did have a test today, and I think I aced it. Well, maybe not aced, but passed with a good solid B.”

  “All right!” Logan said, clapping his hands together. “We should celebrate. Why don’t we go for a soda?”

  I wanted to share his enthusiasm, but I could barely force myself to smile.

  “Maybe I’m just tired,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “We’ve been working really hard on S.A.D.D., and my English project has been taking up a lot of time.”

  Logan’s face fell. But he hid his disappointment. “Sounds like you could use a nap,” he said. “We’ll get a soda another time.”

  “Thanks, Logan,” I said gratefully. “Maybe a nap would help.”

  I didn’t really feel sleepy but after I said good-bye to Logan and entered my chilly empty house, all I wanted to do was lie down.

  I stretched out on my bed and slept long and hard. I didn’t wake up when Sharon or Dad came home. I didn’t even wake up for dinner. It wasn’t till eleven o’clock that night that I finally roused myself, just long enough to change into my pajamas and go back to bed.

  The next morning Sharon and Dad were worried about me, but I assured them I wasn’t ill, just exhausted.

  That tired feeling stayed with me for the rest of the week. The least little thing could make me cry and when I wasn’t feeling weepy, I just felt blah. I even felt that way during our S.A.D.D. meeting, when I should have been excited.

  Kristy was pumped. She wore her good luck baseball cap with the picture of a collie on the front and a sweatshirt that the Stamford chapter of S.A.D.D. had given her.

  Mr. Seitz had originally planned to let us use the teachers’ conference room for the meeting, but so many kids showed up that we had to move into the auditorium.

  Kristy looked right at home sitting on the stage with her legs dangling over the edge. She had wanted me to join her up front, but I couldn’t do it. I told her I preferred to stand at the door. “That way I can greet latecomers,” I said. What I didn’t say was, that way no one will notice when I just stare at the walls.

  The meeting was a monster success. Kids were throwing out suggestions right and left. Their enthusiasm was impressive. But somehow my attention kept wandering. I’d find myself staring into space until a voice would bring me back to the present.

  “As I see it, we want to accomplish several things,” Kristy was saying. “First, we want to get the word out that drunk driving is a major problem. So how do we do that?”

  “I heard students in Stamford put a smashed car on display in front of their school.”

  I shuddered. That would be too hard to look at, especially so soon after Amelia’s death.

  “We could list names,” one boy suggested. “Paper the halls with the names of victims of drunk drivers.”

  “Great idea!” Kristy said. “Much more effective than listing numbers.”

  Ashley Wyeth, who once worked with Claudia at radio station WSTO, raised her hand. “We could tape public service announcements to run on local radio and TV stations urging teen not to drink or ride in a car with an impaired driver. We could state our name and age and then say that we lost our friend Amelia because of a drunk driver.”

  Claudia led the cheering for that idea.

  Bea Foster raised her hand. “Why don’t we bring in guest speakers? I heard that in Bridgeport, survivors of accidents come speak to classes. Their stories really seem to hit home.”

  Kristy nodded vigorously. Then she added, “The Stamford chapter gave me this shirt. Maybe we could order some more and sell them at school to raise money for the speakers.”

  Then Pete Black, president of the eighth grade, stood up. “I propose we have an S.A.D.D. awareness month. Each week we’ll stage a special event, and all wear our shirts.”

  “I’ll have our Express photographer take a picture,” Emily Bernstein called out. “I’m sure we can get an article in the Stoneybrook News. Maybe they’ll go for a month-long feature.”

  Kristy gave her a thumbs-up. “Cool.”

  The longer the meeting went on, and the more students came up with better and better ideas for an S.A.D.D. awareness month, the more distant I felt from the meeting.

  It was weird. I should have been thrilled. Instead, I was filled with a dull feeling of hopelessness and despair. I left before the meeting was over, slipping quietly out the side door. I knew Kristy would want to talk about the meeting. I just didn’t feel up to it.

  I walked home, slogging through the mushy brown snow. Without any leaves, the trees looked dead. Even the houses seemed to have been drained of their color. Why did everything seem so bleak?


  Entering the house, I was hit with that overpowering feeling of wanting to lie down. I thought if I could just sleep I wouldn’t feel so bad.

  I don’t know what it was that made me go into the kitchen, but I’m glad I did. Because on the bulletin board by the phone was a list of phone numbers and names. One name in particular seemed to leap out at me. Dr. Reese.

  Dr. Reese is a therapist. She helps people work through their problems.

  I have only told a few people this secret, but not long ago, when Dad had just gotten married, and Logan and I were having some problems and my grades in English were dropping, I panicked.

  I would wake up each morning and feel miserable. Then I’d spend the rest of the day worrying about what I’d said to Kristy, or Logan, or what someone had said to me. I agonized over everything I did.

  Things grew worse and worse, and I started feeling tired all the time. It’s a dead giveaway. It shows you want to hide from the world instead of face it.

  I finally got up my courage and talked to my guidance counselor at school. She helped me confide in Dad, and he contacted Dr. Reese.

  I saw the doctor after school for an hour each week. She helped me find out what was bothering me and learn how to cope with my problems. Dr. Reese was a lifesaver then, and seeing her name made me realize that she was just the person I needed to talk to now.

  I knew Dad and Sharon would be supportive of my decision to see her again, so I didn’t even hesitate.

  I picked up the telephone and dialed her number.

  “Dr. Reese’s office,” a pleasant voice answered.

  I explained my situation to the receptionist. Dr. Reese had told me to call her any time I needed to talk, and she was on the phone in a flash. Within five minutes we had set up an appointment for me to see her after school on Monday.

  My heart thudded in my chest as I approached the new office building at the end of Main Street. Several dentists and an optometrist had their offices there, along with Dr. Reese.

  Why should I feel nervous if I’d been to see the doctor before? Because even though I know that therapists can help you with your problems, a tiny part of me worries that I might be crazy.