Ann Martin - Claudia And The Sad Goodbye

I didn't understand Mimi at all. Especially not when, after the doctor left, Mimi seemed to be her sweet self again and told me, "My Claudia, never believe what other people say. About you. Never unless you believe it, too. I love you."

"I love you, too, Mimi," I said, forgetting entirely that just a while ago I'd wanted to take her by her shoulders and shake her for being such a baby and throwing her pudding at the wall.

That night, Corrie called, me twice. She didn't really have much to say. I think she just wanted to talk. And I wanted somebody who needed my sympathy, since Mimi didn't seem to want much of mine. When I'd left the hospital that afternoon, I'd said, "Feel better soon," and she hadn't even answered. I don't know why.

But guess what happened on Tuesday — the doctors said Mimi could go home the next day! They couldn't figure out what was wrong and didn't see any reason to keep her in the hospital. I was so excited, I called all my friends with the news. I even called Corrie, who said, "Oh, Claudia! That's great! You must be so happy. I can't wait to see you on Saturday!"

Mom and Dad and Janine and I ate a celebratory dinner that night. Later, as Janine and I were cleaning up the kitchen, Janine suddenly turned to me and gave me a hug. We hardly ever hug.

"What's up?" I asked her, smiling.

"I'm relieved about Mimi. Aren't you?"

"Definitely!"

I went to my room to work on my stop-action painting, and a few minutes later, my phone rang.

It was Mimi!

She sounded fine and we chatted for a long time. I told Mimi how the painting was coming along.

At last she said, "Well, let you go now. Do not want to confuse the Muses."

I had no idea what she meant, so I just said, "See you tomorrow, Mimi."

"Good-bye, my Claudia."

Chapter 7.

On school days, our family gets up at six-thirty. So I was surprised, on Wednesday morning, to hear voices and people moving around, and to look at my digital dock and see that it read 4:52.

Four fifty-two? What was going on?

I had to go to the bathroom anyway, so I got up. But I never even reached the bathroom. The noise and commotion was coming from my parents' bedroom. I stopped at their door. I know it isn't nice, but I listened to their voices for a few moments. All I could catch were snatches of conversation.

J heard Dad say, "… arrangements to make."

Then I heard Mom say (and did she sound as if she were crying?) "I can't believe it." (A pause.) "… have to tell the girls."

I drew in a deep breath, knowing something

was very wrong, and knocked on their door.

My father opened it. He was dressed except for his socks, which he was struggling to put on, hopping around on one foot, and at the same time, reaching for his wallet and stuffing it in his pocket.

Behind him, my mother was hurriedly pulling a blouse on over her slip. A pair of stockings and her pocketbook had been tossed on the bed, which was unmade.

Maybe I've made a mistake, I thought. Maybe the clock actually said 9:52 and we were all late for work and school. But no. Mom and Dad's clock now said 4:54.

"Mom? Dad?" I said. "What's going on?"

I realized then that my mother was crying. She sank into a chair and opened her arms to me, inviting me to sit in her lap, which I hadn't done in years. But I did it then anyway.

Mom took my hand and said, "Claudia, Mimi died during the night. Just a little while ago."

I think my heart stopped beating then. I really do. I think it missed two beats. When it began working properly again, I felt my stomach turn to ice.

"I don't believe it," I whispered. "She was fine last night."

I felt my father's hand on the back of my head. He stroked my hair. "No, she wasn't," he said, and choked on the words. "She wasn't fine, honey. Not really. She was old and she was sick. I think she just wore out."

All I could do was nod my head.

After that, the morning was pandemonium. The early morning, that is. I had to get out of Mom's lap because she and Dad had to finish dressing and rush to the hospital to do whatever you do there when someone you love dies. But first they had to wake up Janine and tell her, so there were more tears and hugs.

When Mom and Dad finally drove off, Janine and I sat at the kitchen table with cups of tea. We did not use Mimi's special cups. In fact, before our tea, I closed the door to Mimi's room so we wouldn't have to look at her things.

Janine and I had been told that we could stay home from school, so we just sat at the table. After a very long silence, I said, "I talked to Mimi on the phone last night. You know what her last words to me were? I mean, before she said, 'Good-bye, my Claudia'?"

Janine shook her head. "What were they?"

"She said she'd let me go now. She didn't want to confuse the Muses."

Janine smiled. "Were you working on a painting or something?"

I nodded. "The stop-action painting. I was telling Mimi about it."

"Mimi meant to say that she didn't want to disturb the Muses."

"I don't get it. What are the Muses?"

"The Muses are, well, they're creative forces. They're spirits or powers that are supposed to inspire artists and musicians and writers. Disturbing the Muses means interrupting a creative person at work. Mimi just got the phrase mixed up."

"Oh." I knew Janine would have an explanation. She always does. But I was really thinking about Mimi. She was the only one in my family who had understood about my art and how very important it is to me, and how serious I am about it.

And now she was gone.

Suddenly, I felt alone and abandoned, like Corrie waiting on our front steps for her mother. It's funny to feel abandoned with your own sister sitting across the table from you.

Janine looked at her watch. I looked at mine. Mom and Dad had told us that at seven o'clock we should begin phoning relatives and close friends to tell them what had happened. The

funeral would be on Saturday, in just three days, and there was a lot to do before then.

So at seven, Janine took over the phone in the kitchen to call our relatives, and I went upstairs to my own phone to call my friends. I knew that if I called just the families of the Baby-sitters Club members, word would travel fast (it always does in a small town), and soon anyone else who should hear the news, like the Newtons, would hear it.

I sat on my bed with my back to the windowsill so I wouldn't have to look at Mimi's plants.

J called Mary Anne first. That was going to be the hardest of the calls because Mary Anne had been almost as close to Mimi as I'd been. Growing up without a mother, she had come to Mimi with skinned knees or for advice or to learn a new knitting stitch.

"Mary Anne?" I said when she picked up the phone, sounding not quite awake. It was 7:03.

"Claud?" she replied. "Is anything wrong?" (Mary Anne has emotional antennae.)

"Mimi died last night." I had to say it that way. I couldn't hedge with Mary Anne. "She died in the hospital. Mom and Dad are over

there now,” (my voice -broke), "getting her things and — and — "

Mary Anne was already crying, so I didn't see any reason to keep talking.

"I'm sorry, Claud," she said, between sobs.

I began to cry again, too. "So am I. I know how close you were."