Free Waiting for Unicorns by Beth Hautala

wrap up a report after I got home from school. He had arranged for a nurse to come and check on Mom every afternoon—but she wouldn’t be there for a couple more hours. So it was just Mom and me, cozied up like a couple of cats in the warm autumn sunshine that poured through the library window.
    Out of the blue, Mom asked me a question I knew I would never forget.
    â€œHave I been a good mom, Tal?”
    I glanced up from my homework, a little confused by her question. At first I thought it was the morphine talking. Mom wasn’t the sort of person ever to be uncertain about things, at least, not to me. Before cancer she never would’ve asked me that sort of question. I put down my pencil.
    â€œThe best,” I said. I didn’t even have to think about it. “You’re the best.” I said it again because I didn’t want her to have to think about it, either. Why hadn’t I ever told her this before? I guess sometimes you overlook things because they seem so obvious.
    I got up from my desk and went to lie beside Mom, trying my best not to hurt her. I traced the bright blue veins in her thin hands. They looked like the twisting lines on a road map, and I wished that we could all just drive away and leave the whole broken and sick world behind.
    I don’t know how long we lay there together, but when I looked over, Mom had fallen asleep. The morphine made her do that—fall asleep really fast. I didn’t want to wake her, but I needed her to know, so I whispered, “I love you.”

    Dad found us there in the library when he got home later that night. Mom and I were both asleep. And when she woke up, she didn’t seem to remember any of our conversation. Or if she did, she never said anything.
    She died a week later, while I was at school.
    The school secretary called me out of class to the principal’s office. He didn’t need words to tell me what had happened; his face told me the truth I didn’t want to know. I remember slowly packing up my books as the class watched, my hands shaking.
    It’s funny the things you remember. I knew I wouldn’t finish my math homework that night, and I remember wondering if I should talk to my teacher about it before I left. But I didn’t. I just slid my pre-algebra book into my backpack and zipped it up, the noise filling the silent classroom. Then I made my way down the long hall to where my dad waited, red-eyed and broken.
    He pulled me into his arms and held me so tight I could barely breathe. And then he cried, right there in the principal’s office—big gasping sobs. I remember how the principal looked down at his shoes, scuffed across the toes, and rubbed his forehead. I felt sorry for him, and embarrassed for us. Sometimes it’s hard to know how to help people who are all broken up, right there in front of you.
    I wanted to cry, too. I knew exactly what was happening. Mom was gone, and all the things I loved most about her were suddenly just memories. No one would ever get to know her like I knew her. I’d never be able to say, “You have
got
to meet my mom. She’s super cool,” because she was dead. I tried to cry because it seemed wrong, cruel almost, to let Dad stand there and do it alone. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t cry because I was too angry.
    They had made me go to school that day, even though the nurse said she could go at any time. Mom and Dad had made me go, and now Mom had died without giving me a chance to say good-bye. The tears were there, drowning me from the inside out. But the weight of my silent good-bye kept getting in the way, keeping my eyes dry. It was like a wall.
    I didn’t get to say good-bye. I didn’t get to say good-bye. I didn’t get to say good-bye.
    Those words kept repeating in my head, over and over, and no matter how hard my tears crashed against my insides, they couldn’t get out. I couldn’t manage a single tear, not