Wishing Day

by Lauren Myracle

  “Yes.” She turned and hurried out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  She went to the tree with the rope swing, but she didn’t sit on the swing. Instead, she stood on one of the tree’s big roots and looked back at Papa’s workshop. Then she looked at the house, cheerful and reassuring in the setting sun.

  The lights were on in her sisters’ rooms. Darya’s blinds were shut, while Ava’s curtains, gauzy and purple, were wide open. Natasha spotted Ava’s feet at the end of her bed, one on top of the other in purple socks with yellow polka dots. Her top foot waggled back and forth. She was probably reading a book. Probably about magic.

  Natasha shrugged off her backpack and set it by the trunk of the tree. Now she took a seat on the wooden swing. She dug the toes of her sneakers into the ground to keep from swaying.

  She ran the pad of her index finger over the creamy envelope. She flipped it over, dug her thumb beneath the flap, and pulled out the letter. It was several pages long. The sheets were folded in half and creased in the middle, and when Natasha shook them open, she caught a whiff of roses.

  Again, a flash of memory. A glass bottle tied with a dove-gray ribbon, and Mama saying, “You put it here, where your skin is warm,” as she dabbed a drop of perfume on the inside of Natasha’s wrist.

  With a thudding heart, she read her mother’s letter:

  Dear Natasha,

  If you’re reading this, that means I wasn’t able to fix things. Or myself. I am more sorry than you will ever know.

  Oh, sweetheart.

  I’ve started this letter a thousand times and ripped it up just as many. I can’t say what I need to say. I’ll never be able to say what I need to say. I have to try, though, don’t I? So I’m not going to rip this one up. This is the one, because tonight will be my last night here.

  Take care of your sisters and your father. No, that’s not fair—you’re only five, after all! You’re already so accomplished, though. So smart and funny and creative, and so sure of what you want. Today you asked me to braid your hair, and you got very stern with me about the bumps. “No bumps, Mama!” you cried. “My reputation is at stake!” Papa and I laughed at that, and you got even sterner.

  “Molly has bumps, and everyone in the class calls her Bumpy Molly,” you informed me.

  “Oh dear,” I murmured, thinking about how callous children can be, even in kindergarten.

  You saw my expression, and your eyes widened, and you flung your arms around me and said, “They don’t, Mama! I made that up! Nobody calls her Bumpy Molly, and I just said that and I don’t know why. She has the unbumpiest hair of anyone, she really really does, so change your face back, Mama. Please!”

  But Natasha, I share that as an example of what an imagination you have, not to suggest you’re callous. You’re not callous. You couldn’t be if you tried. Last week you tried to pet that mean old tomcat that lives down the road—do you remember? And he clawed you, and I was so upset. But you patted my hand and said, “Mama, shhh. Poor darling Mama. He was just having a rough day, that’s all.” Then you spun off into a story about all the mice you would feed him to cheer him up, but only mice that were already dead and that died of “natural causes,” as you put it.

  Do you still make up stories?

  Do you still know Bumpy Molly, who isn’t bumpy at all?

  Except you’re not five anymore. Maybe you wear your hair short now. Maybe you have a new best friend. (Although selfishly, I hope you don’t. Molly’s a good friend, and good friends are worth holding on to.)

  This is awful, Natasha. I miss you already. Please just . . .

  I don’t know. Stay kind. Stay funny. But do be careful what you say. The world is slippery. It’s easy to make mistakes, and some mistakes can’t be undone.

  And, yes. That’s why I’m writing this. To say good-bye, to say I love you, and to warn you about your Wishing Day, which is tomorrow. If you’re reading this letter, it must be, because I’m going to leave Papa specific instructions on when to give it to you. I’ll be quite firm, just like you were about how you wanted your hair, you silly goose.

  Thirteen years old.

  Impossible.

  I’ll say it, then: Be careful what you wish for.

  Because the old saying is true, Natasha. Do you understand? I wished for something terrible, and my wish came true. I unwished it many times over, but unwishes don’t count. Although I wonder, if you wished for my wish to reverse itself, would it work? Would Emily and I be best friends again?

  Don’t, darling. Never mind. Wish for chocolate cupcakes or a new dress or a patch of sunlight for that mean old tomcat. Or don’t wish for anything at all!

  I’m still going to try, you know. To fix the wish I wished, to be back before you know I’m gone. But the wings are beating, sweet girl. I hear them in my head, and I fear I’m losing my mind. My heart, however, is yours forever.

  Love always,

  Mama

  The sun dipped farther below the horizon. Natasha’s spine hurt from sitting so rigidly on the wooden swing. She dropped the letter to her lap and pushed at the ground, flexing her feet and pointing them to make the swing move.

  She wore her hair in braids when she was little? She called Molly “Bumpy Molly,” and Mama “poor darling Mama”? That sounded more like Ava than Natasha.

  She didn’t remember a grouchy tomcat, either. Or Emily, whose name Mama had scratched out. Emily, Emily, Emily, the Bird Lady had said. It’s always about Emily, isn’t it?

  Everyone wanted to scratch Emily out, it seemed. Had Emily once been real? Had Emily been Mama’s best friend? Had Papa and Aunt Vera scratched those memories out—or was Mama crazy?

  I fear I’m losing my mind. Mama wrote those words herself.

  But wait, Natasha told herself. Go back a step and THINK, Natasha. Think what this means.

  Mama.

  Is.

  Alive.

  A shadow caught her attention. It was Papa, standing in the window of his workshop, his hands propped against the window frame. He wasn’t looking at Natasha. He wasn’t looking at anything, as far as Natasha could tell.

  But when he heard that he was right and that Mama was alive . . . !

  She hopped out of the swing and ran across the lawn, tingling with the knowledge of how happy he’d be. Then she stopped. Mama was alive. Yes. But she wasn’t here.

  She was alive, and yet she wasn’t with them, and she wasn’t with them on purpose.

  All this time, Mama could have been with them.

  She could have saved Papa from his grief. She could have saved all of them from their grief.

  Why did she decide to reach out now? And why why why did she reach out to Natasha instead of Aunt Vera or Aunt Elena, who were her very own sisters, after all? Why didn’t she reach out to Papa, her very own husband?

  Natasha swallowed and gazed at the house Mama had walked away from nearly eight long years ago. Inside the kitchen, she saw Darya setting the table, and she saw Ava following behind, straightening the knives and forks and arranging the napkins more neatly.

  Aunt Vera stood at the stove, stirring soup or maybe spaghetti sauce, and Aunt Elena opened the oven and slipped in a foil-covered loaf of bread. Natasha knew what would happen next. Aunt Elena would set the timer for twenty-five minutes, and Aunt Vera would say, “Twenty-two minutes would be better. You can always leave the bread in longer, but if you leave it in too long, there’s no going back.”

  Their routine was as predictable as clockwork, and this, the cheerful dance of meal preparation and easy chatter, was what defined Natasha’s childhood. Maybe their family was broken, but in the cozy light of the kitchen, Natasha didn’t see it. In the light of the kitchen, her family seemed pretty whole.

  Mama was alive. (Because Natasha wished it?)

  A rough beast slouched toward Bethlehem, indignant birds throwing shadows on its thick thighs. (But no, because Mama wasn’t scary. Mama wasn’t a beast.)

  But maybe, in a way, Ma
ma was getting ready to be reborn, only not in a scary way? (Because Mama was the one who was scared, that’s what she said in her last note—the notes that had made Natasha feel so special. Maybe Natasha had called her back? Maybe all of this was happening, in some mysterious way, because of Natasha’s wishes?)

  Feathers brushed Natasha’s cheek, and she spun around. A nighthawk cawed and circled above her. It plummeted down, and Natasha ducked, covering her head with her arms.

  “Stop it!” she cried.

  The tree behind her shivered, and a flock of blackbirds took flight. Natasha was lost in a tumble of bodies and small thrumming hearts. Beaks stabbed her shoulders and her back and the bare flesh of her legs. Wings flapped noisily.

  They were shooing her toward the path that led to the old willow.

  “All right, all right!” she cried. Her calves burned as the trail grew steep. When she tripped, warm things kept her from falling. When she slowed down, the sting of beaks increased.

  Panting, she crested Willow Hill. The birds swooped away in a tremendous flurry of wings.

  The old willow tree waited. Its slender, curved branches were no longer covered with buds, but dressed in proud green leaves.

  She approached. Its leafy branches rustled. Come in, come in, they whispered.

  She pushed through the swaying curtain. Each leaf caressed her. When she was fully within the willow’s sweeping canopy, something loosened inside her.

  “My mother is alive,” she told the Bird Lady, who sat between the tree’s great roots.

  “Is she, now?” the Bird Lady said.

  “She is. And you knew it.”

  “Hmm,” the Bird Lady said. Her frail body rested against the willow’s trunk, and her pajama bottoms were bunched over her outstretched legs. Her bunny slippers peeked from the hem. The bunny ears were white and fluffy.

  She patted a spot beside her. “Come. Sit.”

  Natasha picked her way over and sat.

  The Bird Lady searched the folds of her skirt and produced a rumpled white bag with DINO’S CANDY printed across the front. “Would you like a gummy worm?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I really think you should have a gummy worm.”

  “I don’t want a gummy worm.”

  The Bird Lady examined her with her shiny, intelligent eyes. “Do you always get what you want?”

  It felt like a trick question.

  The Bird Lady opened the bag and held it out. She jiggled it.

  The night could hardly get stranger, Natasha decided, so she reached into the bag and pulled out a juicy red gummy worm.

  “Good,” said the Bird Lady. “And now I will tell you a story.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Once upon a time, there was a girl named Klara,” the Bird Lady began.

  “My mother,” Natasha said.

  “Klara lived here in Willow Hill,” the Bird Lady went on. “She had an older sister, Vera, who was excellent at crossword puzzles and bossing people around. She had a younger sister, Elena, who liked to flatten caramels into long ropes and then roll them up to look like snails.”

  I know all this, Natasha almost said, but she swallowed the words. Anyway, she didn’t know about the crossword puzzles. The caramel snails, yes, because Aunt Elena still made caramel snails every so often.

  “Klara also had a best friend,” the Bird Lady said. She gazed at Natasha. “Do you know who your mother’s best friend was? Can you guess?”

  Natasha dug her fingernails into her palms. “I’d rather not.”

  “Hmm,” the Bird Lady said.

  Natasha pushed the back of her head against the willow’s trunk. “Fine,” she said. “Emily.”

  “Good girl.”

  “But is she dead? Did . . . did Mama wish her away?”

  “I don’t know. Did she?”

  “You do so know! Because Papa talked about Emily that one time. He said Emily was Mama’s invisible friend, or imaginary friend, or whatever. And Aunt Vera freaks out whenever Emily’s mentioned, and Aunt Elena knows something, it seems like . . .”

  Natasha felt ashamed. She was yelling at an old lady wearing bunny slippers. But she also felt unjustly accused. Accused of what, she couldn’t say.

  “Why are you so mean?” she whispered.

  The Bird Lady blinked. “Mean? Am I mean?” Her expression softened. “Oh dear, I’m going about this all wrong. Don’t cry, pet.” She reconsidered. “Well, do cry if you need to. Or even if you want to. There’s nothing wrong with tears.”

  The Bird Lady slipped her hand into Natasha’s. It was a child’s hand, but with wrinkles. She gave a gentle squeeze.

  “Shall we start at the beginning?” she asked.

  “I don’t care where we start. I just want to understand!”

  The Bird Lady chuckled, but not in a mean way. “Don’t we all.”

  “Is my mother alive?”

  “You’re the one who said so, not me.”

  “Yes, but is she?”

  “Did she tell you she was?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.” Natasha got braver. “Because she’s the one who’s been leaving me notes—and you’re the one who delivers them.”

  “Hmm,” the Bird Lady said.

  “She said she couldn’t fix things, and I think she meant about . . . you know. Emily. Did Mama make a wish about Emily? Is that what happened?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Okay, then please answer this, and tell the truth. Do you know Emily?”

  “Hmmmmm.”

  Natasha exhaled. The Bird Lady withdrew her hand from Natasha’s and held up one finger.

  “Yes . . . and no,” she said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “I know the idea of her,” the Bird Lady said carefully.

  “Okay.”

  “And yes, I knew her when she was a girl.”

  “Okay.”

  “But no, I don’t know her now.” Her words sounded like an apology. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

  Natasha bowed her head. Mama had wished for Emily to go away, hadn’t she? Or for something to happen to her. Something bad. Mama made a wish on her Wishing Day, and it had to do with Emily, who once upon a time was Mama’s best friend. But now no one remembered her, except for a teeny bit.

  Except . . . it wasn’t so much that people didn’t remember Emily. It was more as if Emily had been erased.

  Natasha shuddered. She’d watched a horrid movie with Molly about a boy who could make anything he wanted come true. His sister said something that upset him, so in the blink of an eye, he made it so that she could no longer talk, ever. Natasha could see it in her mind, a girl with long hair, terrified eyes, and no mouth. No scar or gash where it used to be, just a slick of smooth skin below her nose and above her chin.

  A mouth, and then no mouth.

  Emily, and then no Emily.

  What had Mama done?

  “Is that why my mother left? Because Emily disappeared?”

  The Bird Lady’s eyes were full of sorrow.

  “Because Mama made her disappear,” Natasha clarified.

  The Bird Lady didn’t argue.

  “But that would have been years and years ago. I mean, if it happened because of Mama’s Wishing Day. Wouldn’t it? Because Mama would have been thirteen, right? So why would she wait so long to leave? Did she just get more and more sad? Did nothing make her happy anymore, not even her . . . ?”

  Natasha broke off. She put the pieces together and reeled.

  “I was supposed to make it better, wasn’t I?” she said. “I was supposed to read Mama’s letter before my Wishing Day. I was supposed to wish for Emily to come back!”

  “Is that what your mother told you?” the Bird Lady asked.

  “No, but that’s what she meant. That’s what a good daughter would have done. But I messed up and everything’s ruined and I can’t even tell anyone!”

  The Bird Lady raised her eyebrows.

  “You know what I mean
. I’m telling you, yes, but you don’t count.”

  Her eyebrows went higher.

  “Darya would think I’m crazy,” Natasha said. “Molly, too—or maybe not. I don’t know.” She rubbed her hand over her face. “Ava would believe me, but she’d believe me too much, if that makes sense. She’d get excited and bounce up and down and want everything to be better right this second. But I’m not sure everything is going to be better. Is it?”

  “I can’t answer that,” the Bird Lady said.

  “You could if you wanted to!” Natasha cried. “I know you could!”

  “If wanting something to be true was all it took, don’t you think your mother would be home by now?”

  Natasha fell silent. She thought about Papa and how much he wanted Mama to come home. She thought about what he would say if she told him that Mama could come home—that it was possible—but that she chose not to.

  It would break his heart. It would break his heart all the way, into such small crumbles that it might never be able to be fixed again.

  Aunt Vera and Aunt Elena couldn’t know, either. What good would it do?

  “It has to stay a secret, doesn’t it?” Natasha said. “Mama’s kept a secret all these years, about Emily. Now it’s my time to keep a secret. About Mama.” She searched the Bird Lady’s face. “Am I right? Are you allowed to answer that question?”

  The Bird Lady patted Natasha’s leg.

  “Never mind,” Natasha said bleakly. “I already know the answer.”

  From far, far away, Natasha heard Aunt Vera’s voice. It was faint and thin. She was calling Natasha in for dinner.

  Natasha got to her feet and brushed herself off. Heaviness hung in her chest. “Well . . .”

  The Bird Lady stayed seated. The shadows had deepened so that she blended in with the trunk. “It’s going to be all right,” she said.

  “Is it?”

  “You’re a good girl.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes,” the Bird Lady said. “And you do have choices, you know. We all do.”

  Natasha took a shaky breath.

  “Natasha!” Aunt Vera called distantly. “Natasha!”

  It seemed impossible that Natasha could hear her, but everything about this day seemed impossible.