“What?” Reggie asked, furrowing his black-dash eyebrows.
“Nothing,” Charlie said with a hasty smile. “I’m just distracted, sorry.”
“Oh, Charlie?” Reggie said. “Do you think you might go see Mellie soon?”
“Sure, why?”
“Do you think you can give her this? It’s my card. I asked her to come see me the last time you were here, but I haven’t heard from her. If she’s nervous about being in the hospital, I can meet her in the front lobby, or anywhere. The thing is, I’ve been talking with my family, just a few phone calls, and . . . oh, bother.” Reggie raked a hand through his hair again. “Listen, Charlie, metaphorically speaking, one can’t hide under one’s bed for one’s whole life. They’re making noise about discharging me from this place, lovely though the stay has been, and we all know I’m going to need a bit of help. Even if my head was in perfect working order, I never really learned any practical skills regarding being a person in the world. I don’t know how to cook, and I can’t fold a shirt to save my immortal soul. I’m hoping Miss Mellie will be willing to lend her services. Of course, she’d need to come live with me, and we’d have to get her kitted out in some new jumpers, and I’ve no idea how to build a pigeon coop.”
“You want to build a pigeon house?”
“Well, they certainly can’t stay inside. Mother would have a fit.”
“You’re going to stay with your family again?” Charlie asked, surprised. Reggie waved his hand back and forth indecisively.
“Maybe. Eventually. Only if there’s a pigeon coop.”
“Mellie would never leave the pigeons behind.”
“And rightly so; they’re war heroes.”
Could I come visit you when Mellie moves in? Charlie wanted to ask the question, wanted to toss out a rope and tie it to the idea of Mellie and Reggie in a big house, having tea in a sunny garden, pigeons picking at the crumbs of fancy cakes made just for them. He could sit under the table like when he was little, and break the iced cakes into little pieces for the birds. Occasionally Mellie would pass down another cake for the pigeons, and Aggie would pass down a biscuit for Charlie with a tiny nibble taken out of it, her red lipstick smudged into the icing. Because of course Aggie would be there, too. How could she not be?
But Mum would never let him sit under the table, even if Reggie said it was all right. And it wasn’t much of a perfect day to imagine if Mum wasn’t there. Or Grandpa Fitz, who would probably start bickering with Mellie or maybe just napping in the sunshine with his bristly chin on his chest.
Or Theo. Maybe Theo was asleep in the sunshine, too, dreaming of only lovely things.
Maybe that was what being a grown-up really was. Not sitting in a chair and making conversation, but doing something you didn’t really want to do because it made someone else happy; because it was important, even if it wasn’t important to you. One couldn’t sit under the table for one’s whole life, either.
He tucked Reggie’s card safely into his pocket.
“I’ll make sure she gets it.”
“Good man,” Reggie said with a smile.
“I’m not actually a man,” Charlie said, shrugging one shoulder and busying himself with his coat. “I’m just a boy, really.” Just a boy with half a heart and a coat that was too big for him.
“That,” Aggie said, appearing in front of him to straighten his collar and press a red-lipstick kiss into his hair, “is a matter of opinion.”
Charlie was so distracted by this that the thought sneaked up on him as the door closed: Dad. That’s what he had somehow remembered from so very far away while Aggie and Reggie were bickering.
It was how Mum had looked at Dad.
Biscuits leaped back into his arms from where she had been waiting, impatiently but politely, outside the hospital doors. He caught her more out of reflex than actual preparedness. He stroked her soft fur absently as he walked, her tail lashing in contained thrill at the promising trills of birdsong overhead. He slowed down as he drew close to home again.
He picked his way across the street, over potholes and wide puddles of greasy water, to Mellie’s bench. She was hunched over her pram of trinkets. She looked very small in the bright light.
“How are you, Mellie?”
“Living and breathing, aren’t I?” A dark gray pigeon with lovely green flecks on her wings alighted on Mellie’s shoulder and began preening a bit of wild hair.
“Their bones are hollow, you know,” she said, stroking the pigeon’s soft head with a dirty fingertip. “That’s how they make themselves light enough to fly. They can’t carry even an ounce of unnecessary weight.”
Charlie reached into his breast pocket to pull out the card, but his fingertips stilled against Theo’s letter, still unread, and somewhere underneath it Charlie’s heart still beat. It felt so much heavier, even though there was less of it. He would never make it off the ground.
“David told me that. He was a good boy.” Mellie rubbed her cheek against the downy wing of the dark gray pigeon. Charlie pretended not to see her cry.
“I know how awful it is,” he said after several silent minutes. “When someone you love very much dies.” He got up and tucked Reggie’s card into her chapped red hand. “Reggie wanted me to give you this. He knows he needs help sometimes, and that he probably will for a long time. You should let someone help you, Mellie. You should let people love you back.” And without thinking about it too much, he hugged her and squeezed her as tight as he dared. She held herself stiff and unmoving, but Charlie felt wetness where his cheek touched hers. “Thank you for being my friend,” he whispered.
He pulled away, scratched Pudge under the chin, and turned towards home.
They hadn’t been walking long when Biscuits growled, puffing herself up double her size against his shin.
“Yes, I see it, too,” he murmured to her. Something was keeping pace with them, just out of sight. But he wasn’t afraid. He recognized those steps.
He sat down on a bench underneath a tree that was stubbornly pushing out a few shriveled green buds. A drop of water dripped down onto his neck, and he hunched over a bit to shield the letter as he opened it.
Dear Charlie,
I’m writing this the night before I leave. I know I won’t be able to say everything I want to when I go. I used to be better at this, but for now this will have to do:
I know you worried when I stopped writing before. I don’t know if I’ll be able to write this time. It’s hard, sometimes, to try to explain what I feel.
But I hope you know that even if I don’t write, I’m always trying to. That’s why I’m leaving. So I can come back.
I promise I’ll keep trying.
Love,
Theo
“All that, and he still left you,” came a voice off to his left.
Charlie didn’t look up straight away. Her voice sounded just like he remembered. Remorse settled on her haunches next to the bench. Their eyes were almost even.
With a low growl, Biscuits slunk over his knees to place herself between them.
“He didn’t leave me,” Charlie said, smoothing the letter flat against his knee. “I let him go.”
No one walking past paid them any mind. And anyway, what other people thought didn’t bother him so much these days.
Theo had told him that he had to leave if he wanted to get better. That if he wanted to try to get better, he needed to get help from people who knew how to help him. And he did want to try. Theo didn’t know he was carrying around a chunk of Charlie’s heart, and Charlie didn’t even know if the heart could grow, or if Theo would ever bring it back to him.
But he thought of that soft, dark ribbon that ran through him and wrapped around the things he loved.
He thought of that invisible thread that guided carrier pigeons home, no matter how far away they flew.
I’ll always find you.
“I don’t have any tears for you today.”
Remorse gave a little sigh, but d
idn’t protest. Charlie folded up the letter along its seams, put it back into its envelope, and tucked it safe inside his coat before pushing himself to his feet.
“I’ll see you around, though.”
“You will,” Remorse agreed.
She wasn’t something to be afraid of—the feeling, at least. It was only when it curdled into shame that it could hurt you, poison you from the inside. It was okay to mourn mistakes. And Charlie had made so many mistakes, would probably make many, many more. But he’d had victories, too. Big ones—his heart, such as it was, throbbed faintly with remembering—and countless small ones, like cups of tea made just right, clean linens in the cupboard when someone reached for them, Biscuits eating from a bowl that Theo had filled. No. No tears today.
He nodded to the wolf as he walked away, Biscuits at his heels. He turned back, just once, to look, and she was gone. Half his heart beat in his chest, and somewhere across the city the other half was gaining momentum, every second taking it farther and farther away.
Charlie lifted his face to the watery sunshine and started walking down a different street.
Acknowledgments
Writing is usually depicted as a lonely experience, something that by nature can only be done in isolation. I have never found this to be true. That we need to be lonely to be productive or creative or good is a lie I think we should stop telling ourselves or anyone else. I wrote, edited, and finished this book because of other people, because of the warmth, community, patience, expertise, advice, and shelter they shared with me. When I stumbled was when I tried or was forced by circumstance to do it on my own. I am saying this as a gentle reminder to whomever might be reading this, and a not so gentle reminder to the future version of myself who will look back on this time and wonder how on earth I did it. This is how:
My agent, Tina Dubois, and the intrepid team at ICM, a lighthouse of support, patience, and confidence, who guided me through rough waters with gentleness and grace.
The team at Walden Pond Press who designed, edited, and cared for this book from the very, very beginning. In particular, Debbie Kovacs, for her steadfastness, inspiration, and endless warmth—there is a fireside glow about you. And most especially, my editor, Jordan Brown, for his endless patience, precision, and vision. You could always see the shape of the thing while I was still mapping out the edges. You are a mentor and a friend. There is no getting rid of me now.
Dadu Shin for the incredible cover and illustrations. Seeing them for the first time was like a match being struck in my heart.
Mary Rockcastle, Kelly Krebs, and the sprawling family of teachers, students, and staff at the Hamline MFAC program. In particular, I would like to thank Swati Avasthi, who was the first person to make me take myself seriously as a writer, and Claire Rudolf Murphy, who never once gave up on me.
And most especially Anne Ursu, for being my teacher, my friend, my biggest advocate, and a lamplighter to my spirit. Now you are stuck with me, sorry.
My front row: Jennifer Coats, Jessica Mattson, Zachary Wilson, Josh Hammond, Sarah Ahiers, and Anna Palmquist, as well as Gary Mansergh, Kate St. Vincent-Vogel, Steph Wilson, and Ronny Khuri. For countless hours sitting across from each other at Jen’s kitchen table or sprawled across the couches at Sarah’s cabin or around the fire at Palmquist Farm. For being such a part of my daily life and thought process and heart that it is impossible to extricate who I am as a writer from the tangle of your friendship. For pulling me out of every dark hole I dug myself into like cheerful, relentless miners with pickaxes you weren’t afraid to use. There’s a sincerity for ya.
My friends and family. Jim, Sunilla and Jessica Eklund, and my favorite Australians, Andrea, Brad, Ollie, and Obi Philips. You are the net always ready to catch me. Sarah Dunworth, for living in my brain. Kristi Kontras Rudie, for being a sister to my spirit.
My grandfather, Perry Eklund.
And my mom, Joan Eklund Sandstrom, who keeps my heart safe.
About the Author
BRITA SANDSTROM is a graduate of Hamline University’s MFA program in writing for children and young adults. Hollow Chest is her first book. She lives with her family and collection of cats in Minneapolis, Minnesota. You can visit Brita online at www.britasandstrom.com.
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Copyright
Walden Pond Press is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
HOLLOW CHEST. Text copyright © 2021 by Brita Sandstrom. Illustrations copyright © 2021 by Dadu Shin. “[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]” Copyright 1952, © 1980, 1991 by the Trustees for the E. E. Cummings Trust, from Complete Poems: 1904–1962 by E. E. Cummings, edited by George J. Firmage. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
Cover art © 2021 by Dadu Shin
Cover design by David Curtis
* * *
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020952899
Digital Edition JUNE 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-287076-6
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-287074-2
* * *
2122232425PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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