“Isn’t there a bridge?” my father kept asking. “Are you sure there isn’t a bridge over to Wales?”
“Doofus,” Uncle Stew said.
“Don’t start up with me,” my father warned.
Brian keeps bugging Sophie. He said, “So, you think Bompie will recognize—us?”
“Of course he’ll recognize us,” Sophie said.
“All of us?”
“Of course,” Sophie said.
But there’s something different in the way Brian is bugging Sophie now. It doesn’t seem as mean as before; it’s more like he is trying very hard to figure her out and he’s worried about her, too. He likes truth and facts and lists, and I think he is very bothered by someone like Sophie who sees the world differently than he does. Brian keeps asking me what is going on with Sophie and what’s going to happen once we reach Bompie’s. I told him I wasn’t a mind reader or a fortune-teller.
CHAPTER 68
WALES
Down and across Wales we’ve plunged. The countryside is so green and lush and inviting, but it’s so hard to get used to the cars and noise and speed. I wish we would stop more. I long to look in the windows of the houses and listen to the people talk. What do they do every day? Who is living in all those houses?
But we’re pressing on to Bompie’s because Bompie hasn’t been well and everyone is worried now, and it all scares me half to death. Before I was just scared about seeing Bompie and what that would mean, but now I’m afraid he won’t even be alive when we get there, and that would be much, much worse.
We’ve stopped now at a little inn in a dark, quiet village and I’m going back downstairs now to listen to the people talk.
CHAPTER 69
THE LITTLE GIRL
We’ve zoomed across Wales. Boy, did Sophie love Wales! She kept saying, “Wouldn’t you like to live here? In this village? Where would we go to school? What would we eat for breakfast? Who do you think lives in that little house there?”
But last night was the strangest of all. We were at an inn, waiting downstairs for Sophie so we could have dinner, and Brian was badgering Uncle Dock to tell us what had happened to Sophie’s real parents.
“We have a right to know,” Brian insisted.
“I don’t know about that,” Uncle Dock said.
“What happened?” Uncle Stew said. “Nobody ever tells me anything.”
Brian said, “Why is she always lying about her parents? Those aren’t her parents. Why is she lying about Bompie? I’m going to ask her straight out why she’s lying.”
“Sophie’s not lying,” Uncle Dock said.
“Is too,” Brian said.
Uncle Dock said, “Look, I tell you what. I’ll tell you a story—”
“I don’t want a story,” Brian said. “I want the truth.”
“Just listen,” Uncle Dock said. “Once there was a child who lived with her parents by the ocean. They were a nice little family and the girl was much loved. But something happened—the parents—the parents died, and then—”
My head felt like it was being bombarded by a whole cloud of zinging fireworks. “Wait!” I said. “So afterward, everyone was telling the little girl how the parents went to heaven—”
“Well, I don’t know exactly—” Dock said.
I kept going. “Everyone was saying how heaven was such a beautiful place and all, with no worries, no woes, and that made the little girl feel awful, that she was left behind while the parents were off in this beautiful place without her—”
“Well, erm, I don’t know exactly,” Dock said. “I just know that then the little girl went to live with—”
“Wait,” I said. “Her grandfather? Did she live with her grandfather?”
“Yep,” Uncle Dock said. “But she only lived with her grandfather for a short time, and when he died, she went to an aunt’s house, but the aunt—”
“The aunt didn’t want the little girl, right?” I said. “And so the girl went to a foster home or something and then another and another. Nobody wanted her probably. She lived in a lot, a lot of places, right?”
“Yep,” Uncle Dock said.
“What the heck is going on?” Brian said. “How do you know this stuff, Cody?”
“How come nobody ever tells me this stuff?” Uncle Stew said.
“So,” I said, “the little girl finally, finally was adopted, right?”
“Yep,” Uncle Dock said.
“And by this time”—I was really talking fast now—“by this time, she wanted so much to be wanted that she made herself believe that this was her real family, her only family, and they had chosen her and they loved her and they couldn’t live without her.”
When I got to that point, Sophie came into the room, and we all stared at her, and Brian put his head in his hands and said, “Oh. Oh!” and Uncle Stew said, “Oh, Lord. Nobody ever tells me a darn thing!”
And then we had dinner.
I could hardly eat because all I could do was look at Sophie, this whole new Sophie, and everybody else was looking at her, too, and finally she put her fork down and said, “Exactly why is everyone staring at me like I’m a ghost or something?”
Uncle Dock said, “You just look real special tonight, Sophie, that’s all,” and she bent her head, and I watched one lone tear drop down her cheek and onto her plate.
We’ve just crossed the Severn River (there was a bridge! no ferry!) and are now in England. Both Uncle Dock and my father cried when we entered England. Sophie asked them what was the matter and Uncle Dock said, “England! England!” which wasn’t exactly an answer.
Sophie said, “What about England?”
My dad said, “Our father was born here.”
“I know,” Sophie said.
“So why does that make you cry?” Brian asked.
“Our father. Bompie. Born here.” My dad turned to Uncle Stew. “You know what I mean? Bompie was born here.”
Uncle Stew, who was driving, said, “I have to concentrate here—where do we go now? Who has the map?”
My dad turned to Uncle Dock. “Dock? You explain. It’s a little emotional—”
“Sure,” Dock said. “I know what you mean. Our own father was born in this very country, and it’s like part of us is here, too. We came out of all this—”
And then they were all very quiet, staring out at the countryside.
“Just think,” Sophie said. “If Bompie and his parents hadn’t come to America, you would have grown up in England, too. You wouldn’t be Americans. This would be your home.”
My dad nodded. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Brian said, “Well, if Bompie had grown up here, maybe he wouldn’t have married who he married and you all wouldn’t be here. Or maybe if you were here, you’d all have grown up here and you wouldn’t have married who you married and then I wouldn’t be here. Or Cody—”
Sophie whispered, “Would I be here?”
And everyone looked at her and then back out at the countryside and Brian said, very soberly, “Now that is the question of the century.”
Sophie leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. I think she’s sleeping now.
Brian just whispered to me, “But what about the Bompie stories? How does she know the Bompie stories? Did she make them up?”
“I don’t know,” I said. And now I’m thinking about all the other things I don’t know about Sophie. I want to know how her parents died. Did they get a terrible disease? Did they die at the same time or did they die one at a time, and if they did, which one died first? And what did Sophie think? And how did Sophie feel?
I wonder what Sophie is dreaming.
We’ll be at Bompie’s tonight.
CHAPTER 70
THE CASTLE
A cross England we’ve come: past Bristol and Swindon and Reading, and now we’re sitting on a bench outside Windsor Castle, which looms up behind us, a great gray stone castle. Inside, the Queen is probably having tea. Across the street i
s McDonald’s. We’re eating cheeseburgers, right here outside Windsor Castle.
The air is warm and heavy with anticipation. We are very close to Bompie’s, maybe a half hour away.
I guess we are going. Now.
CHAPTER 71
THE COTTAGE
When I woke up this morning, I thought maybe I had landed on another planet and I was in someone else’s body. This was partly because I had slept the night on the floor and partly because of what greeted us when we got to Bompie’s last night.
We found the village of Thorpe without too much trouble, but since the houses don’t have numbers, finding Bompie’s house in the dark was a little harder. The houses all have names, like Glenacre and The Yellow Cottage and The Green Cottage and The Old Post Office.
The name of Bompie’s house is Walnut Tree Cottage, so we spent a lot of time peering out at trees, looking for a walnut tree, and as it turned out there is no longer a walnut tree at Bompie’s house anyway. The way we finally found it was by stopping at a house and when I went up and knocked on the door, a woman answered and said, “You’ll be wanting that one across the way, love,” and she pointed to a little white cottage across the street.
All the lights were on in Bompie’s cottage. We tapped on the door, and when it opened, a nurse answered. Uncle Dock explained who we were and then we all squeezed inside, and Uncle Dock said, “Where is he?”
She led us through one room and then another, where the ceilings are so low you bump your head, and we followed her on through another room and down a skinny hallway and into Bompie’s bedroom.
And there was Bompie, lying in his bed with his eyes closed. I was pretty sure our luck had run out and he was dead.
CHAPTER 72
BOMPIE
Oh, Bompie!
I can see why he wanted to come home to his England. It’s so pretty here, with roses climbing up the side of the house, and lavender spreading in big clumps along the walk, and inside are tiny rooms and wee windows and miniature fireplaces.
I had so wanted to see him alone, but instead we all clumped into the room together.
“Is he dead?” Cody asked.
“Shh,” the nurse said. “No, he’s not dead, but he’s a little confused. Don’t scare him.”
He looked different than I expected him to look, but I figured that was because his eyes and mouth were closed. What I saw was a gentle round face, very pale, with wisps of gray hair over the top of his head. He looked like an older version of Uncle Dock.
Uncle Dock took Bompie’s hand and stroked it gently. “Bompie,” he whispered. “Bompie?”
Bompie opened his eyes, blinked, and stared. “Peter?” he said to Uncle Dock.
“Peter?” Uncle Dock said. “Who’s Peter? It’s me—Dock—Jonah.”
“Jonah is away,” Bompie said. “He’s at camp.”
Uncle Dock bit his lip.
“Bompie?” Uncle Mo said.
Bompie stared hard at Uncle Mo. “Who are you?” he asked.
“It’s me, Moses.”
“Moses is away,” Bompie said. “He’s at camp.”
Uncle Stew said, “Bompie? Do you know me? It’s Stuart.”
Bompie blinked again, three or four times. “Stuart is away,” he said. “He’s at camp.”
And then Cody stepped forward and Bompie said, “Oh! There’s Moses. Are you back from camp?”
Cody said, “Yes. I’m back from camp.”
And when Brian stepped forward, Bompie said, “And here’s Stuart! You’ve come back from camp, too?”
And Brian said, “Yes.”
And then I stepped forward and I knelt beside Bompie, and I said, “Bompie? Do you know who I am?”
And he stared hard at me and said, “Are you Margaret?”
I said, “No.”
“Claire?”
“No.”
Brian said, “Sophie, stop. He doesn’t know you.”
And Bompie said, “Sophie! Are you Sophie?”
And I said, “Yes.”
CHAPTER 73
THE STORY
It seems way more than a week ago that we arrived here at Bompie’s, and it seems a lifetime ago that we set sail on our first ocean shakedown.
For the first day we were here, Bompie slept most of the time and didn’t recognize us. On the second day, Sophie started telling Bompie his own stories. She said, “Remember, Bompie, when you were young and living on the farm in Kentucky, and your family traded two mules for a car? Remember that, Bompie?”
He opened his eyes very wide and nodded.
“And remember, Bompie, how you went to town to pick up the car and drive it home? And on the way home—”
With each detail, Bompie nodded and said, “Yes, yes, that was me.”
“And in the water, when you were struggling, struggling—”
“Me?” Bompie said.
“All that water, and you were underneath—”
“That part I don’t remember so good,” Bompie said.
That afternoon, Sophie told another story to him. “Remember, Bompie, when you were young and living in Kentucky, near the Ohio River, and one day you started across the train bridge—”
“The trestle, yes, yes,” Bompie said.
“And remember how it was so windy and rainy—”
“Yes, yes.”
“And when the train came, you had to let go and you fell down into the water—”
“Yes, yes, that was me.”
“And all that swirling water turning you this way and that and you were fighting for breath and—”
“That part I don’t remember so good,” Bompie said.
She told Bompie all the stories she’d told us, and we all wandered in and out of the room as she was doing this, and everyone else was very quiet, listening. Bompie remembered almost everything she described, except for the parts about struggling in the water.
Once, when I was in there with Sophie, she told a story I hadn’t heard her tell before. It went like this:
“Bompie, remember when you were very little, just a child, and you went sailing with your parents?”
“I did?” he said.
“Out on the ocean, the wide blue, blue, ocean. And you were sailing, sailing along, and then the sky got very gray and the wind started to howl—remember?”
He looked at her, blinked a few times, but said nothing.
“The wind, remember? It was howling, howling, howling, and the boat was rolling, and it got so cold, and your mother wrapped you in a blanket and put you in the dinghy—remember?”
Bompie stared at her, but still he said nothing. Sophie rushed on, “Remember? Remember? And—and—the wind—the cold—and water, a big wall of black water coming down over you and then you were floating, floating, floating—and—and—the parents—the parents—”
She looked at me, pleading, and suddenly so much was so clear to me. I knelt on the other side of the bed. “The parents didn’t make it,” I said.
Sophie gasped. “The parents didn’t make it,” she repeated, and then she rushed on: “And then you were all alone, Bompie, all by yourself, floating, floating—”
Bompie said, “But I—”
I reached across the bed and touched her hand. “Sophie,” I said. “Maybe that’s not Bompie’s story. Maybe that’s your story.”
Bompie whispered, “Sophie, he’s right. That’s your story, honey.”
Sophie stared at me and then at Bompie. She looked so scared and so little sitting there beside Bompie. And then she put her head down on Bompie’s chest and she cried and cried and cried.
I left them there together and went out into the backyard and lay down in the grass beneath the apple tree.
About an hour later, Sophie came out and handed me a blue cloth-covered notebook.
“I want you to read this,” she whispered. “He’s your Bompie, too,” and then she walked through the gate and down the village lane.
In the notebook were handwritten letters, maybe
twenty or thirty of them, dated over the past three years. They were all addressed “To my Sophie,” and they were all signed, “From your Bompie.”
The first one was welcoming her to the family. He told her that he could be her grandpa; he would be her Bompie. In each of the other letters he told her a story about himself growing up, so that she would know him better, he said.
There were many more stories besides the ones Sophie had already told us. There were stories about him in school and about him fishing with his own grandfather; there were stories about the first girl he had kissed and about the day he met Margaret, his wife.
It was strange reading the ones about the car in the river, and leaping off the train tracks, and Bompie’s baptism, and Bompie in the swimming hole, and Bompie at the ocean. Most of what Sophie had told us was pretty much the way he had told it to her in his letters, except for the parts about struggling in the water. He was in the water all those times, but he hadn’t written about struggling in it.
Those parts had come from Sophie.
When I finished reading, I walked up and down the village lanes, looking for Sophie.
CHAPTER 74
APPLES
Bompie’s yard looks so pretty: roses and lavender and delphiniums and petunias and pansies. In the backyard is an apple tree, full of nearly ripe apples. On our third day here, Uncle Mo went out and picked some of the ripest, and later that day he walked into Bompie’s bedroom and said, “Bompie? Look what I brought you—”
Bompie sat up and said, “Apple pie!” and he laughed and then he cried and then he laughed again, and Uncle Mo was laughing and crying, too, and then everyone came in the room and we were all laughing and crying over that apple pie.
“How’d you know how to make that?” Uncle Stew said.
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