The House That Wasn't There

by Elana K. Arnold

  And then Oak reached her other hand over to twine around Fern’s tail, and it was when all four of the children’s hands were upon the kittens that the flash occurred, brilliantly bright, so bright that it filled their noses and ears and mouths as well as their eyes, and then they were home, back upon the tree stump, and Alder felt as full of wonder as ever a person could be.

  Chapter 26

  It had worked.

  Amazingly, miraculously, it had worked. There was Fern, safe in Alder’s arms, and here was Walnut, curled contentedly (and perhaps sleepily) in Oak’s. The four of them pressed close together on the tree stump in the yard. Around them, the wind was softer now, gentle.

  Oak stepped down from the stump. Alder did too.

  What could someone even say in the face of such a thing? It was too big, too beautiful for words, so, with a little wave, Oak turned toward her house, and Alder did the same.

  When she was safe inside, Oak found that she felt a little bit weepy and very, very tired. She kicked off her shoes and went with Walnut to her bedroom, curling up and pulling the covers over them both.

  Opossums and teacups and kittens and doors. Fathers and sweaters and yarn balls and more. Howling winds. Sparkling air. Tree stumps and found books. A house that wasn’t there.

  Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe part of her was still traveling—some part that took longer than the body to get from one space to another, trailing behind her like a scarf. Maybe it was that part that felt confused, mixed up, and a little bit lost.

  She would lie very still, Oak decided, so that the part of her that was still traveling would know where to find the rest of her. Walnut’s purr grew louder, his whole being a warm, fuzzy comfort in her arms.

  And then Oak was definitely asleep.

  “Oak?”

  Mom’s voice jolted Oak awake. She sat straight up in bed, and Walnut, displeased with the sudden movement, shot out of her arms and ran from the room.

  “Honey, what are you doing home?” Mom crossed the room and sat next to Oak on the bed. She felt Oak’s forehead. “Are you sick?”

  Mom’s hand felt so good on Oak’s skin. Cool, and comforting.

  “The school called me at the office to say you were absent. You had me so worried!”

  Oak’s eyes overfilled and tears spilled down her cheeks. And then she was sobbing, crying loud like a little kid, messy crying, and Mom put her arm around Oak’s shoulders to pull her close.

  At first Oak resisted, pulling away, but when Mom’s arms loosened, like she was going to let Oak go, Oak collapsed instead into her mother’s embrace.

  Mom caught her, strong and solid, and held Oak as she cried.

  “It’s okay,” Mom said. “It’s all right.”

  Oak cried until her tears were gone, and then she sniffed and hiccuped and wiped her nose with her sleeve. It was rough and itchy—she was still wearing Dad’s wool sweater.

  Her mom pulled a tissue from the box on the nightstand and gave it to Oak. “Honey,” she said again, “what are you doing home?”

  “I didn’t get on the bus,” Oak said. “I just . . . stayed home today.”

  Her mom nodded. “I can see that.” Her gaze traveled over the sweater Oak was wearing. “You’re missing your dad,” she said.

  It was true. Oak nodded, sniffing.

  “He’ll be here soon,” Mom said.

  “And,” Oak said, “I’m mad at you.”

  “Ah,” said Mom. She smoothed Oak’s hair from her face.

  “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to move. You never ask me anything.”

  Mom nodded. Even as Oak said it, she knew it wasn’t completely true, though it felt true.

  “Let me ask you something now,” Mom said. “Are you sorry we moved?”

  Was she sorry? No. She wasn’t. Not really. “That’s not the point,” Oak said.

  Mom laughed, but not at Oak. “I know,” she said. Then she said, “It’s okay to be mad at me, baby. You can be as mad as you need to be. I’ll love you just the same.”

  This, Oak knew, was completely true.

  Mom patted Oak’s knee through the blanket. Then she looked around and said, “You know, you’re right about this room. It could use some color.”

  “I was thinking lavender,” Oak said.

  “Lavender,” Mom mused. “That sounds lovely. Well, what do you say?”

  “You mean . . . today? Like, now?”

  “Well, you’re home from school, and I’m home from work. Why not?”

  “Okay,” Oak said. “But I’m still going to be mad at you.” Except, right now, she wasn’t.

  Mom laughed. “Tough but fair,” she said. She stood up. “Come on. Let’s go buy some paint.”

  Chapter 27

  When Alder gave Beck his finished sweater the next day in class, it was with the knowledge that the sweater had traveled to a different dimension. He liked the thought that knit into the sweater was that secret experience.

  “Thanks, man,” Beck said when Alder handed it to him. Alder had folded it and tied it around with a ribbon that he’d found in a box in his dining room that contained a bunch of random wrapping stuff, like scissors and tape and gift tags.

  He watched as Beck set the sweater on his desk, pulled the ribbon loose, and unfolded it. The blue yarn Alder had had at home was a near-perfect match to the yarn Beck’s grandmother had used. He was a little nervous about how Beck might respond to the orange pocket he’d knit and attached just above where Beck’s heart would be, but Beck grinned when he saw it.

  “Orange was my grammy’s favorite color,” he said. “How’d you know?”

  Alder shrugged. He hadn’t known, of course, but when he’d seen a small ball of orange yarn tucked into the bottom of the yarn basket at home, his hand had reached for it without his even thinking.

  Energy can’t be created or destroyed, Mort had said. Maybe it was Beck’s grandmother’s energy that had pulled his hand toward the orange yarn.

  Probably not. But maybe.

  “Thanks, man,” Beck said again, and he shrugged out of his hoodie, right then and there, and pulled the sweater over his head. For a minute Alder worried that the neck hole might be too tight, but it turned out to be just fine.

  “You’re welcome,” Alder said, and he turned to go back to his desk.

  “Hey,” Beck called after him. “Want to sit with me and Marcus today at lunch?”

  Slowly, Alder turned around. A month ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Heck, if he was being honest, this was exactly the sort of invitation he’d been daydreaming about. But now . . .

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Alder said.

  It was a tight fit, but they all managed to squeeze around the lunch table—Beck and Marcus, Oak and Alder, Miriam and Cynthia and the twins.

  At first, it was awkward, and Alder worried he’d made a mistake, inviting Beck and Marcus to join him and the girls. Beck and Marcus sat side by side at the end of one bench, with Alder next to Marcus and Oak on his left; across from them sat the other kids. Alder couldn’t help but feel like he was the hinge connecting the pair of boys to his right to the rest of the table. It was a big responsibility, being a hinge.

  But then Oak caught his eye, and she must have been able to see how uncomfortable he felt, because suddenly she pushed the contents of her lunch—two sliced-up oranges, a sandwich cut into quarters, a bag of potato chips, and three homemade oatmeal chocolate chip cookies—into the center of the table. “Let’s have a potluck,” she said, as if this were a thing they did all the time.

  There was a moment of silence, and Alder wasn’t sure what anyone else thought of the idea. But then Beck said, “Cool!” and he pushed his lunch into the center too—a couple of slices of cold pizza, a peach, and a whole sleeve of Thin Mint cookies.

  It was the sleeve of Thin Mints that started the cascade. Everyone wanted in on those, and soon Miriam and Cynthia had added their sandwiches to the mix (gluten-free turkey and peanut butter and jelly), along with C
armen and Cameron’s veggie slices and ranch dressing, tortilla chips and guacamole. Marcus was the last to push in his food, but he did it, and with a grin.

  “You’re still eating egg salad every day?” Alder asked.

  “It’s the best sandwich,” Marcus said with a shrug.

  And just like that, things were okay between them.

  They laughed and talked and shared the lot of it.

  It was a disgusting mix of turkey and egg, of ranch dressing and Thin Mints.

  It was the best lunch Alder had ever had.

  He and Oak rode the bus home at the end of the day in happy silence. The world, Alder felt, seemed to make sense in a way it hadn’t since the school year began.

  What Mr. Rivera had said was true, he decided. Everything was connected—language arts and math, kittens and portals, old friends and new friends, past and present. It was also true that things were complicated in ways Alder hadn’t known them to be, and it was true he didn’t understand all of it. But that was okay, he thought, settling comfortably back into the vinyl bus bench as they bounced along toward home. He didn’t need to know everything.

  The world was full of twists and turns and magic and surprises, and that was okay. It was good.

  “See ya, tree kids,” Faith called as Alder followed Oak down the steps.

  “See ya, Faith,” they answered in unison.

  Together, Oak and Alder walked down Rollingwood Drive. Neither of their mothers’ cars were in the driveways.

  “Want to come over?” Alder asked.

  “Sure,” said Oak. “I’ll grab Walnut and we’ll be over soon.”

  Alder opened his front door and found the mail had arrived, pushed through the slot. He picked it up and set it in the basket next to the door, where mail was always set.

  He heard the thump of Fern jumping down from her little bed in the front window, followed by her meow that he knew was her way of saying hello.

  “Hey there, kitty,” he called, turning to pick her up, but before he did, the top letter caught his eye—it was addressed to him, Alder Madigan.

  And the sender was Family Tree.

  “Oh,” said Alder, pleased. “The DNA results arrived!”

  Fern purred and wound between Alder’s feet, her orange fluffy tail wrapping around his calf. He’d get a snack, Alder decided, bending down to scratch Fern’s head, and then he’d open the letter. Maybe Oak had gotten her results too, and they could compare. That would be fun, he thought to himself as he kicked off his shoes and turned toward the kitchen.

  It was at that moment, behind him, that his front door banged open so hard that it hit the wall. Fern yowled and dashed down the hallway, disappearing into Alder’s room. Oak filled the doorway, her energy electric, her hair a mess around her head. She wore, Alder noticed, a single shoe. And in one hand she clutched an envelope identical to Alder’s, except hers was torn open.

  Her other hand clutched the test results.

  “Alder,” she said, and the sound of her voice made all the hairs on his body stand on end. “We’re cousins.”

  Chapter 28

  It was impossible. But it was true.

  The test didn’t lie—science didn’t lie. At the end of her results, in a section with the heading “Relatives,” it read:

  Alder Madigan

  Possible Range: 1st Cousin

  Confidence: Extremely High

  Shared DNA: 897 cM across 33 segments

  Oak had no idea what “897 cM across 33 segments” meant, but she knew what “Extremely High” confidence meant.

  And she knew what “1st Cousin” meant.

  Facts were facts, and science was science.

  She watched as Alder scanned her test results, his face wrinkling up in the way it did when he was confused.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” he said.

  “Let’s open yours,” Oak suggested, “to make sure.”

  Alder nodded. He handed Oak back her test results, and then he tried to open his envelope, but his fingers were shaking.

  “Let me do it,” Oak said, and Alder handed the envelope over to her. They were still standing in the entry hall, and, Oak decided, Alder looked like he needed to sit down. So she led the way to his couch, and Alder followed.

  When they were sitting, Oak tore open Alder’s envelope with a sharp rip. Out came his test results, folded neatly in thirds. She hesitated, then handed the paper to Alder. They were his, after all; he should see them first. He turned to the end, to the page that listed his relationships with other users of the service. Oak was sitting close enough that she could read the sheet too, and even though a moment ago she’d magnanimously thought that Alder should get to see his results before she did, it was impossible not to peek.

  They gasped together:

  Oak Carson

  Possible Range: 1st Cousin

  Confidence: Extremely High

  Shared DNA: 897 cM across 33 segments

  “That’s you,” Alder whispered.

  Oak nodded. It was.

  “How is this possible?” Alder asked. “What does it mean?”

  “It means,” said Oak, “that somehow, one of your parents is the brother or sister of either my mom or my dad. It means we’re family.”

  Alder lowered his results to his lap. He looked up at Oak, and the expression on his face made tears spring to her eyes, though she wasn’t sure what it meant.

  “Family,” he said. “I’ve . . . never had much family before.”

  Oak laughed, and it was strange how her throat felt so thick. “Me either,” she said.

  “Cousins,” Alder said, like he was trying out the word.

  “Cousins,” Oak answered.

  Alder grinned. “And imagine,” he said, “how much we hated each other at first!”

  Oak laughed. “Families fight sometimes, I guess.”

  Alder laughed too, and he tilted back his head just the way Oak knew she did when she laughed . . . just the way her mother did as well.

  How had she never noticed it before? Was it because she hadn’t known to look? Alder’s hair—it was dark and curly, the way Oak’s mother’s had been, before she’d started to wear it shorn so close to her head. And hadn’t Oak’s mom told her that she used to live here, in LA, that she’d grown up here even?

  “Alder,” said Oak, “I think my mom is your aunt.”

  “Really?” said Alder, blinking. “Are you sure?”

  Oak nodded. “Pretty sure,” she said. “But there’s only one way to be certain.”

  Alder immediately knew what she was suggesting. “We can’t ask her,” he said, horrified. “If she wanted us to know, she would have told us.”

  “My mom isn’t big on telling me things,” Oak said. “She didn’t even tell me that we were moving down here until the day she started bringing home boxes to pack.”

  “Do you think . . . ,” Alder began, “that your mom is related to my mom, or to my dad?”

  Oak shrugged. “I’ve only met your mom that one time. What do you think? Do I look more like your mom or dad?” She squared her shoulders and tried to make her face as blank as possible so that Alder could imagine his parents onto it.

  He looked at her for a long time. It was sort of uncomfortable, honestly, to be looked at like that. She saw his eyes look into hers, and then up across her forehead, and over her hair, and at her nose and mouth and chin, and the whole thing was disconcerting.

  Finally, “Can you sing?” Alder asked.

  “Nope,” Oak answered.

  At this, Alder sighed a little, as if he was disappointed. And Oak maybe understood why; if she were Canary’s niece, then Alder would have another connection to his dad in the world.

  “It’s got to be my mom,” Alder said at last. “Maybe you guys have the same nose? I don’t think you look like my dad.”

  Oak nodded. That’s what she’d thought, too, though she didn’t want to be the first one to say it. “Either way,” she said, “it means we’re co
usins.”

  Alder nodded. “Cousins,” he echoed. “Wow.”

  They sat on the couch together. Together, they thought about family. It was a while before either of them spoke.

  “I wonder what happened that made our moms not talk to each other anymore,” Alder said at last.

  “Well,” said Oak, “my mom can have a pretty bad temper. Sometimes she says things she doesn’t mean.”

  “My mom tends to be kind of a hermit,” Alder admitted. “She mostly likes to hang out with me and be at home, unless she’s volunteering or working at the co-op. She’s not good about having friends and stuff like that. I don’t even remember the last time she went out to dinner with someone other than me.”

  “My mom is kind of a workaholic,” Oak said. “When she’s not at her work office, she’s in the bedroom that she made into a home office. She’s not really great with friends either. She says there are things she misses about San Francisco, but I don’t even know if that’s true.”

  “Wow,” said Alder. “Wow.”

  “We have to ask them,” Oak said. “We have to know.”

  Alder chewed on his lip. But then he said, “Okay. We’ll ask them tonight.”

  The best time to ask a hard question, they decided, was over a good meal. And so they set to work.

  Oak went home to get four potatoes and butter and cheese (and Walnut, and her other shoe); then she set the potatoes to baking while Alder heated up water to make boxes of macaroni and cheese. While the water was boiling and the potatoes were in the oven, they worked together to make a salad. The kittens sat side by side on Alder’s kitchen table and watched, their eyes flicking back and forth as Alder and Oak moved about the kitchen.

  “Did you leave a note for your mom?” Alder asked.

  “Uh-huh,” said Oak. “Right on the fridge, where she couldn’t miss it.” She grinned. “I wrote that the neighbors invited us over for dinner.”

  “Well, if you count me and Fern as ‘the neighbors’ and leave my mom out if it,” Alder said, laughing, “then it’s true!”