Secrets Are No Fun

Rebecca Zeidman

Description

Similar to We’re All Wonders by A.J. Palacio and Fish in a Tree by Lynda Mullaly Hunt, Secrets Are No Fun is a companion for children who find themselves in a situation others may not understand. When I was dealing with my mother’s breast cancer diagnosis, I would have benefited from reading a story like mine and knowing that others had been through similar experiences.

Secrets Are No Fun was written to help young girls understand and deal with a family member’s breast cancer diagnosis. Inspired by true events, Rebecca Zeidman, daughter of a breast cancer survivor, describes the journey of Arianna Goodman as she grapples with her mother’s diagnosis, navigates the halls of junior high, and learns how to rely on her friends and family to stay positive during this difficult time. Secrets are no Fun is an uplifting, authentic companion for children who find themselves in a situation others may not understand. 

Sujets

• Vie de famille
• Parentalité et Éducation des Enfants
• Juvenilee Fiction
• Middle Ages
• Family
• Secrets
• Fiction
• Cancer

Informations

• Publié par: AuthorHouse
• Date de parution: 20 mars 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781665579834
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

SECRETS ARE NO FUN
 
 
 
 
 
REBECCA ZEIDMAN
 
 
 
 

 
AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: [phone]
 
 
 
 
 
© 2023 Rebecca Zeidman. All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
Published by AuthorHouse 03/09/2023
 
ISBN: 978-1-6655-7984-1 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6655-7982-7 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-6655-7983-4 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023900317
 
 
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
Author photo by: Rachel Renov Photography
Front cover design by: Rachel Litton
 
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
CONTENTS
Diagnosis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Surgery
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chemotherapy
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Recovery
Chapter 31
 
Author’s Note
 
For my par ents,
Who continue to love and support me every second of every day
DIAGNOSIS
CHAPTER 1
I had a strange feeling on Tuesday when I got home from school. Everything was the same way I had left it before leaving for school that morning. There was just one important thing missing: Mom.
For as long as I could remember Mom was always there when I got home from school. And if she wasn’t, she at least warned me. I mean, Marta, our Hungarian babysitter, was there for us. But she wasn’t as good as Mom because she didn’t speak English and she just wasn’t Mom.
You see, Mom loved me so much that she even quit her job for me. (Okay, and maybe for my other siblings, too, but I prefer to think she did it just for me). When I was in first grade Mom decided she wouldn’t be able to work as a lawyer in the City and be home in time for my brother and me when we got home from school. It was a good thing she realized her real job was being my mom because no one else was as good at it.
Anyways, there was no fresh food, which was also strange. Mom was a cooking fanatic. She told me she didn’t know how to cook until she married Dad and that he was skinny when she first married him. But he’s gained thirty pounds in the past fifteen years, thanks to Mom’s cooking.
Mom’s able to cook anything you ask her to. Just give her time and she finds at least five perfect recipes. And normally when I get home from school the entire counter is filled with vegetables, fruit, and chicken or meat. It was like having a home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner every night, except without the turkey. So I pretty much freaked out once I realized we’d be eating leftovers. And my twin Sam and younger sister Mollie thought it was weird, too.
“Where’s dinner?” Sam whined as he walked into the kitchen, letting the swinging door swing right into Mollie.
“You don’t need dinner.” My sister rubbed her forehead where the door had smacked her. She sat at the dinner table next to Sam. “You could hold the door open for me, you know?”
Sam rolled his eyes and rubbed his belly. My brother was a bit heavy. But he was only eleven, and he didn’t have to worry about girls until he was at least twelve. “I’m starving . . . Wait, where’s Mom?”
My sister and I looked around the empty kitchen and then at each other. Clearly, she wasn’t home, and clearly, there wasn’t going to be any dinner. We understood that. Sam didn’t. Why did people always say he was the smarter twin? Maybe it was because he was mature for his age or because he wore round glasses that made him look like a chubby version of Harry Potter, but Sam was definitely not smarter than me. Yes, he was better in math. But I was better in English. And to defend my case, Mom told me we even had the same IQ. To me, that sort of made us equal.
“So . . .” I stared at the empty table in front of me before clasping my hands together and resting my head on them. Mollie did the same while Sam got up to look for Marta.
Eventually, Marta came in wearing her usual white sweatshirt and blue jeans. Sighing in relief, my whole body perked up at the thought of dinner. And then she started speaking Hungarian, which I understood as well as a crying baby. “ Vacsora a hűtőben, ” Marta said as she opened the fridge.
Lucky for us, this time I did understand what Marta was telling us as she frantically pointed at the stacks of leftovers wrapped neatly in tinfoil: There are leftovers in the fridge . . . Enjoy! She smiled as she took the plates out of the pantry.
Mollie, Sam, and I helped ourselves. We sat and ate chicken and rice in silence before going upstairs and doing homework. Mom hadn’t called, and I was becoming worried.
I was concentrating on a math problem when the phone rang. I jumped up from my desk, happy I had an excuse to take a break. I ran for the phone, hoping it was Mom, but my sister grabbed it before me.
I ran across the hall to her room. “Can I please have the phone?” I begged as I pulled the telephone away from her, but she motioned me away and turned her back to me. I kept whining though. “I need to speak to Mom!”
I could tell she wasn’t going to give it up. I ran downstairs just as I heard my brother’s voice over the intercom. “It’s for you, Ari,” he said and then hung up.
“Hello?” I picked up the phone in the kitchen. “Mommy? I miss you. How are you?” I asked in the sweetest voice possible. Maybe she would hurry up if she remembered she was coming home to the most perfect daughter on the entire planet.
I heard Dad mumble something in the background. Why was he with her? He should be coming home from work by now not driving somewhere mysterious with Mom.
“Sweetie, I have news,” she started.
“OK. What is it?” I asked after Mom paused for what seemed like an eternity.
“I went to the doctor today, and she told me that . . . that I have a boo-boo. Everything is going to be fine . . . but I need surgery. I will be home very soon and explain everything.”
“A boo-boo? What kind of surgery? Mom, what’s going on?” I demanded. I sat down on the kitchen chair and put my knees to my chest. “Hello?” Why wasn’t she answering my questions? I needed to know what she was talking about. My frustration brewing, I tried to breathe and calm down.
But then I heard a beep through the phone, which meant one of my annoying siblings had just come on the line to interrupt my conversation with Mom. So I put my head down on the kitchen table. My head was swimming, and I couldn’t deal with my eight-year-old sister’s voice whining to Mom about why she wasn’t home yet. I slammed the phone down and let out a deep breath.
I did have a valid reason for needing silence and for needing Mom, who had just told me she was at a doctor and needed surgery, by the way. Well, to be specific, she said she had a “boo-boo.” What in the world was a “boo-boo” if not a scrape? I got scrapes on my knees all the time, and I didn’t need surgery to help me feel better. I needed a Band-Aid!
“Ugh,” I said to no one in particular. I stomped my foot and ran through the swinging door letting it swing behind me. I ran up the steps to my room and tripped on my way. I stayed on the itchy carpet, and then I cried, putting my face in my hands, trying to hold myself together.
I picked up my head for a second and looked in the mirror hanging across from the staircase. I had big messy curls that framed my small, pale face and a freckled, crooked nose. My face was red, splotchy, and tear-stained, and I hated that I was crying.
Three years ago I had sat crying with my face in my hands just like this, except it was when Mom told me Zeide passed away. I hadn’t even realized he was Dad’s stepfather until after he was gone. I always thought I was lucky to have three amazing grandfathers. He’d always let me braid his beard, wash his bald head, and paint his nails pink.
That day Mom came in with my aunt, Mimi, and sat Sam, Mollie, and me on the couch. She told us what had happened—that Zeide died in his sleep, and it didn’t hurt. It was very early in the morning, way before school started, and I remember thinking how scary it would be to die in your sleep. Right away, Mollie cried and freaked out, running away from all of us. Mom ran after her, leaving Sam and me with Mimi. Sam sat and stared sadly. He looked like a statue. And I cried in my hands and didn’t move.
Sitting in the same position as I had then, I wondered why Mom told us about Zeide while we were sitting all together and not on the phone. Zeide dying and Mom’s boo-boo—whatever it was—were both bad news. This time, though, it felt different.
I was crying about something that was going to happen in the future. It was a pending doom, like a ticking time bomb. It was bound to explode, leaving my fam