I am the keeper of my family's journal, because I'm its only writer. I've always striven to be a writer, but a gut-wrenching incident before Thanksgiving of 1980 prompted me to start recording my family's events.

The eighth grade math loudspeaker crackled interrupting my classwork with a message that would change my life forever.

     "Miss Morganthal?"

     "Yes?"

     "Do you have Chartreusa Dickinson this period?"

     "Yes, I do."

     "Have her gather her things and report to the office immediately."

     Change. Most of us hate it. I thought I was prepared for it, but you never know until the moment's upon you.

     "She's on her way," Miss Morganthal said.

     The speaker crackled again leaving the room in a sea of silence with every student adrift staring at me.

     My friend sitting next to me mouthed, "What's wrong?"

     "I don't know, Nyssa," I mouthed back, gathering my things and shoving them in my briefcase.

     I rose and bent close to Nyssa's ear. "When I find out, you'll be the first in the school to know."

     She looked at me and mouthed, "Thanks."

     By the time I reached Miss Morganthal's desk, she had a hall pass prepared and handed it to me.

     "I hope it's not bad, Char."

     "Me, too. It's far too early for …" I glanced away and then back again. "I can't imagine what it could be about."

     The principal's secretary ushered me into Counselor Martin's office. Mrs. Martin shook my hand and settled behind her desk. I sat in front of it, every muscle a taut rubber band.

     "Chartreusa, we know you've been expecting this, but we can't reach anyone on your emergency call list. Your stepfather is away from the university campus at his fossil dig site. They're sending someone out now."

     An invisible fist hit my gut. So, it's come, I thought. Earlier than I had expected … but it's here.

     "How long before Cody gets here to pick me up?"

     "Your stepfather's not taking you. I am." She shoved a document in front of me and held out a pen. "It can't wait."

     I picked up the document and stared at it.

     Who would have thought it would end like this? And who could really conceive of an end, anyway? We're born and develop the stupid notion that everything will go on the same forever … but for everything there is a beginning and an end … even for people.

     "We have a signed blanket permission-to-transport form in your file. All we need is for you to sign this form telling whoever may be interested that we are transporting you today with your consent."

     I stared at her, unable to commit to any action. My thought processes seemed clogged, like someone threw a stick into the spinning wheels of a racing bike. "What about my sister?"

     "Her ninth grade science class is on a fieldtrip to the Florida Museum of Natural History. The fieldtrip leader has been notified, and I'm dropping by and picking up Caroline on the way."

     I signed the form and slid the paper back to her. "You know how to get to my apartment complex?"

     "No, but I won't have to." She stood and swept the sweater off the back of her chair. "You have a wrap? There's a chill in the air this morning." She slipped on the sweater. "Thanksgiving's in a few days. That should give you and your family some time to adjust."

     I jumped up and shook my head. "What do you mean you won't have to know how to take me home?"

     "Your mother's in the hospital."

     My mouth dropped open and air refused to enter my lungs. I gasped to kick-start my breathing again, but I couldn't. "What happened?" I whispered.

     "She collapsed outside your apartment getting her mail. Her husband was at work, you and Caroline were here in school, so a neighbor called for an ambulance."

     My head suddenly ached, and my face felt like the bottom of a preheated frying pan. I wanted to hit something. "No! That wasn't supposed to happen!" I slung my briefcase across the room. "She didn't want that. She wanted to die at home, damn it!"

     Miss Morganthal stared at the desktop and flattened her lips. "I truly am sorry, Chartreusa, but we were told it was imperative to get you to the hospital as soon as possible."

     She walked to my case, picked it up, and strode to the door. Opening it, she turned to me. "We must hurry."

     I trudged over to her like a zombie, stopped, and stared through the open doorway.

      I knew she would die. Caroline, Cody, and even Mom knew it. Hell, she pulled herself from the hospital a month ago because she wanted to spend her last days with us. Her … last … days. What a horrible phrase. I understood everything when she first told us, but I didn't think it would really lead to the end of anything. How stupid. What else could it have led to? Now, I only want to go back before the diagnosis and wish it never had happened.

     "I don't want to do this, Mrs. Martin. I'm only fourteen." I stared at her and scrunched up my face. "I don't want to do this."

     She nodded and stepped into the main office.

     Mom didn't die that day, but ovarian cancer had the knack of getting its way eventually-only now I knew a terrible end lay in wait, like the carnivore hidden in a tree waiting for the right moment to pounce on its unsuspecting prey-and change everything in the lives of three innocent onlookers.

     After Thanksgiving, Mom became bedridden; and in the stretch between then and Christmas, she needed constant attention. Our school agreed to let Caroline and me take turns caring for her by allowing us to do part of our schoolwork at home.

     Life. I loved it for most of mine, but recently I've learned to hate it. If you had asked me to define life before Mom got sick, I'd have said, "Life is a precious gift to share with many fine souls." Now, I think it's a tease. It gives you wonderful things, like the love and security of a mother; but in a split second, and seemingly for no reason, it snatches it away.

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