It’s in my head. Bouncing around like a beach ball. Jade’s last words to me. “Shut it, Cate, and let me die in peace.” She’d smiled, squeezed my hand, and then she was gone. I’m walking. Walking on a PEI beach in my sweatshirt and pajama pants and flip-flops with my dark hair tangled and down, with a very special something in my pocket. It sags down, far down, but no one else is here and, to be honest, I don’t care. The sun is beginning to rise and I inhale through my nose sharply. It’s the same sunset, the same feeling as the first morning without my sister. It’s a sinking feeling, the way I felt when we lost our pet fish. But worse, much, much worse, than that. Jade was always strong and no one ever, ever expected her to die. She was the star centre on her competitive soccer team, the second-best on her track team, and she went to the gym every Tuesday and Thursday. But the brain tumor came so quickly that it couldn’t be stopped. I take out the tiny marble box from my pocket and finger it between gloved hands. Jade’s ashes, some at least. I’d stolen it from Mom’s dresser. Remembering the day that she had the tumor, I stiffen and put it back. It started with a simple headache at school; her teacher said she was fine and her friends insisted she could stay. A migraine when she got home—Mom’s aspirin didn’t work. “It’ll be done by morning,” Dad had assured her. I could hear Jade crying from her room—then it turned to screaming and things went downhill from there. She was throwing up, feeling dizzy, but her headache was the worst. Mom realized how bad it was and took her to the Montague hospital. I stayed home. “Is Jade gonna be okay?” I had asked. Dad sighed and turned away from me. His phone rang and he answered it. “She’s being moved to Charlottetown,” he reported. Souris to Montague, Montague to Charlottetown, Charlottetown to Halifax. In Halifax they determined she had a brain tumor, and Dad used some of the little money we had to fly us out there. The doctors assumed she would live two more weeks. It was less than two weeks. Four days later she died. “At least we know she’s safe now,” Mom had choked out. I should have died instead of her. I was the one they were always protecting, shielding from diseases, the frail girl of the family. Jade—my strong, determined older sister—was different. It’s been a month now. February was always Jade’s favorite month. “The best time for track,” she’d joke with me. In truth, she did love running in it. Jade was never delicate and once she ran half a marathon in this weather. She came back with her fingers and toes frozen and frostbitten, and Mom wanted to take her to the doctor, but Jade just laughed and went to bed until noon the next morning. The box is getting heavier in my pocket. I plant my feet into the wet sand and grope for something, anything, that will stop the tears. Like there’ll be a box of Kleenex somewhere on a beach. Now I’m crying, sobbing silently, as the orange-pink sun hovers just over the horizon and climbs the soft coral sky over me. The water splashes quietly onto the shore and laps gently on my feet. I tear my flip-flops off and fling them away. “Why?” I scream. I break down on a big piece of driftwood and stay silent for a moment. Then there’s a sound, a disturbance in my upset tranquility. Footsteps. It’s Mom. “Hi, Cate,” she says softly, and sits down beside me. “What is it?” “I miss Jade.” I’m still crying a bit, and Mom puts her arm around me, her silky blond hair brushing against my cheek. “I know.” Mom looks out to the horizon. “I miss her, too.” “Mom?” I lean against her shoulder. “Could—could she have lived?” Mom bites her lip and takes her arm away from my shoulders. “I’ve been thinking about it, and…no. We found out too late. I’m sorry, Cate. It’s my fault. I should’ve noticed earlier.” “ Now I’m crying, sobbing silently, as the orange-pink sun hovers just over the horizon and climbs the soft coral sky over me. “It’s not your fault,” I say in a wobbly voice. “Not at all.” She turns away. “No, Cate…Catelyn Fuller, you don’t know what I know. I’ve spoken with the doctors. I’ve made sure. They said…they confirmed… that Jade would have lived if I’d gotten her there on time.” Two swift dark cormorants whoosh by, nimble as they swoop over the rocks, racing silently to the water. The wind whistles quietly. Mom’s words echo in my head. I take out Jade’s ashes from my pocket and set them back on the log. Mom turns around. “Oh my goodness,” she whispers hoarsely. “You kept this?” she continues, and a tear trickles down her cheek. “I thought I’d lost it. I’ve searched the house for this. Cate, I am so mad at you for stealing this but god, I’m happy to see it again!” I ignore the fact that she’s never said that before and pick up the small box, cold in my hands, to press it into Mom’s ice-cold palms. Her hands automatically curl protectively around it and she smiles sadly. “Jade,” she whispers, half to herself. I stand up. “Mom?” “Jade,” she says again. “I mean—yes, Cate?” “You should head back,” I murmur, squeezing her wrist. “I will.” She blinks back tears and squeezes back. “I will.” And she heads down the beach towards the dirt road back home. It’s quiet as she leaves. A crab scuttles towards my feet and buries itself in the sand. I wipe my face on my sleeve. The waves ripple across the sand and I look up suddenly, startled as a slender white
Illness
We No Longer Go Outside
Sunrays pour into the old slider window, illuminating the white-washed walls of the bedroom; posters and certificates are plastered on the opposite wall, their color faded from years of sun. A little girl is curled up in bed, clutching the blankets in fitful sleep. I sigh and gaze through the window at the pale blue sky, which is undisturbed by occasional clouds. Outside, the leaves of the cherry blossom tree slowly wave in the breeze, and the birds continue their constant chatter. “Let’s go play,” I whimper as I lick Sarah’s face. “Oh, Hua Hua, you want to go play?” Sarah asks; her face reveals a solemn expression. “Play!” I bark, wagging my tail. “I’m sorry,” she replies, and lies back down. I rest my chin on my paws, and Sarah pulls me close to her chest as she lazily strokes my white fur. Nuzzling my nose into her arms, I breathe in the unmistakable scent of her, like daisies. Only the smell is muddled in with something else I can’t quite explain; it must be from her numerous trips to the hospital. I look around Sarah’s room. Her closet stands in one corner, with her clothes and walking shoes neatly sorted inside. Her homework still lies open on her desk. Usually, she would finish it before she’d take me on a walk, but it’s been awhile since we’ve gone outside together. The nightstand by the bed is piled high with get well cards from all her friends and neighbors, those people I like to bark at when they walk past. Her room smells like the vet’s office, too spotless, not like it used to. It used to smell like sunshine—clean, fresh, crisp. I remember when Sarah and I first met. I was a little puppy then, running around with not a thing in the world that concerned me. You could say I was very energetic, curious, and brave. I didn’t care if I got hurt because I didn’t know what pain felt like. In the cage at SPCA, Sarah crouched down next to me and brought me into her arms. I looked at her and smelled daisies. Her golden brown hair was like long grass growing on the hillside. Her bright smile radiated so much happiness that it was like lying in the warm sun. I took in her freckles, her dimples, and her eyes; I memorized the shape of her face and her daisy-like smell and etched them into my dog heart. Her eyes were blue like sky, and they let me see so deep into her feelings. I saw happiness, playfulness, and pleasure. I saw anything and everything I ever wanted all in a little girl. That day, Sarah took me to my new home, and we played together in the park. She laughed at me running in circles, chasing my own tail. Sarah’s laugh was so beautiful; it sounded like the wind chimes that were always tinkling lightly in backyards. That sound was so sharp and crisp, yet delicate and light at the same time. I remember we also played with my red rubber ball that she gave me. She drew her arm back and threw it far, far into the field. I came bounding back through the grass with the ball clenched in my mouth and placed it at her feet. I yipped at her to throw it again and again until I lay panting on the grass, too tired to play. Feeling the dryness in my throat, I heard the rushing water of the fountain nearby. I raced over to the fountain and dove in. Instantly, I realized that my paws struck only cold water, no surface. Frantically gyrating my legs, I tried to keep my head above the water splashing down from the top of the fountain. What I thought would be refreshing was suddenly like dying. Just as the water began to push me under, I felt two warm, delicate hands pull me to safety. “Hua Hua, you’re such a silly goose. Why would you jump into such a big fountain?” She dried me and hugged me close, burying her nose into my fur. How I long to be at the park right now with Sarah. I can almost feel the wind ruffling my fur and smell the soil beneath my paws. I can feel myself soaking in the warm sunshine spilling from above, and picture myself running with my red ball in my mouth and dropping it at Sarah’s feet. With contentment, I sigh as I recall these joyous moments of our lives. I turn my head to look at Sarah now. She still has her dazzling sky-blue eyes, but she has lost her golden brown hair, and I no longer hear her beautiful laugh anymore. We no longer spend the afternoon in the park playing with my red ball, or sprawled on the grass, and we no longer go outside. Now, she just stays in bed and takes trips to the hospital. I understand that she still loves me, but she can no longer play with me or take me on walks. I understand that things will never be like they were before. I snuggle up closer to Sarah, and she giggles. Whatever she is going through, I am her guardian and loyal friend, and I will do my best to keep her smiling. Nothing in the world can make me leave her side. Just as she saved me from the rough waters, I want to pull her to safety. Stella Lin, 12San Ramon, California
Miraculous Mike
When I think back to when I was little, I always remember my dad trying to keep me and my sisters happy. When I was bored, he’d bring me into the backyard and play catch with me, or do some sort of activity along those lines. I remember when he took me to my first baseball game, and got me this cool mini baseball bat that I really wanted. Whenever I told jokes or tried to be funny, he always laughed, even though half the time it wasn’t really funny at all. As I got older, my mother always said that I had the same sense of humor that my father did, so that made me feel pretty good, because I wanted to be just like him. My father always used to make sure I understood what I was doing in school, especially in math since he was a math teacher a while ago. I still remember the time that my second-grade teacher got mad because my dad taught me multiplication. When all the kids were practicing addition and subtraction, I was practicing multiplication and trying to understand division. Whenever I was nervous when I was younger, my father always tried to cheer me up. When I was scared about going to school on my first day of first grade, he gave me a nickel that he told me was his lucky nickel, and would cheer me up if I got sad. I still have that nickel, along with another lucky charm that my dad gave me. The other charm was a pendant that can be hung from a necklace. It was a small baseball glove with a baseball inside of it, and it’s a little smaller than a mouse ball from the mouse of a computer. One morning at the end of a bad week, he was right there when I woke up. He said, “I have something for you,” and he reached his hand on top of the armoire. He pulled something down and said that one of his relatives gave it to him when he was a little kid. Then he handed me the small pendant and said it would bring me good luck. Joshua and his father When I found out that my dad was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease, which is really called A.L.S., I was really shocked. I felt that he no longer was going to be able to take care of me, and that I was going to have to take care of him. All I knew about his disease was that it caused the muscles in his body to stop working, muscle by muscle. We could start to tell that the disease was affecting him gradually month by month, the way the doctors said it would. What I remember happening to him first was the loss of his ability to straighten his fingers . Then he started having trouble walking and lifting things, and then as things got worse, he ended up in a wheelchair, almost completely helpless. Even though he was handicapped, he never stopped working. He even got an award from the government for being handicapped, only capable of moving his neck and legs, and still doing just as much work as any other person who had been working for them. People at his work even put a sign up on the door to his office saying “Miraculous Mike.” Over time he kept getting worse; however, he still kept trying to keep the family happy. It seemed to me that he started getting better when he stopped smoking, but I guess I was wrong. When I was at a Thanksgiving party for my mother’s work, my mom got a call. She started crying and I just knew something was wrong with my dad. That night my mom’s best friend Kate drove me and my sisters to the hospital where my dad was. I saw a bunch of people I knew there, and they said my dad was OK. But deep down inside me I knew they would be saying that even if he was on his deathbed, which I had a feeling he was. The next day was the last full day I had with my father, and he died the next night on November 16, 1996. I knew this would cause a total change in my life from the moment I had the feeling it was going to happen. Now I realize how lucky I was to have him for the time that I did, and how I never should have taken him for granted. Now, I can’t believe my ears when I hear someone say they hate their parents. I guess they won’t realize how lucky they are to have them until they actually don’t. joshua Maclean, 13Braintree, Massachusetts
