by Luanne Rice
“I’m sorry,” she said.
You’ve said that enough. Let’s have it be over, I said.
“I want to.”
Good. Then it is. And sometimes it was that simple. I love your dragons.
“I made them because of you,” she said.
Because I’m a dragon?
“No,” Tilly said. “And not because you slay them, either. Because of that poem by Rilke. ‘Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage.’ Martha told me, and it’s you, Roo. You do everything with beauty and courage. So I wanted to try.”
I thought back to last summer, when Mom and Dad had praised me so hard, and Tilly had felt left out. And I’d followed her up to her room, my sensitive little sister, and I’d tried to make her feel better.
I could see the sun setting over the beach, the light coming through the window, and I felt the same as I did then, wanting her to believe in herself and find a way to express herself.
You’ve more than tried—you’ve done it. You have …
“I have … what?” she asked, beaming. And I could feel her waiting for it.
The poetry of dragons, I said.
“We have the same memory,” she said, tearing up.
My eyes welled, too, spilling over, and she wiped the tears from my cheeks.
It washed over us, all we had been through, our lives together, our lives apart. Memories of our happy childhood, and of this last ferocious year. This was how we knew we were sisters—we had a language for it, deeper than words, that no one else, even our parents, could know. We spoke it both awake and in our dreams, and it told the story of us.
I wished Tilly could see my smile. It might not have been on my face; I couldn’t control those muscles. But it was inside, filling my heart.
“I want you to have the dragons,” Tilly said. “In the hospital, till you come home. To keep you brave and remind you I love you.”
She hugged me hard, just as Newton came back. Tilly stayed by my side another minute, and I felt something shimmer between us. She hesitated, looking into my eyes, not wanting to leave me. But it was okay now, and I wanted her to feel it, too. We had found our ways back to each other, to the place we’d started from the day she was born, the day she became my little sister.
“I’m going to find Slater,” she said. “Meet us down by the river, okay?”
Okay, I said.
Tilly gave me one more hug, then ran off.
Newton pushed my chair out of the barn, down the narrow, wooded path to the Connecticut River. Saturday boat traffic was in full swing, one of the first really warm spring days. The train bridge was down, and boats circled, waiting for it to open so they could pass again. The river sparkled all the way down to Long Island Sound; it was late afternoon, and I saw the glint of the lens at the Outer Light.
“Hey, it’s the first day of summer,” Newton said.
Summer. I can’t lie. The idea of it filled me with such longing, such wistfulness for all the summers he and I had spent together, all the beach walks, and swims to the big rock, and lazy afternoons at Foley’s, and the sailing and kayak expeditions along the coastline. I thought of times we’d taken the ferry across the Sound to Orient Point, ridden bikes along North Fork roads through potato fields, apple orchards, and vineyards, then back to the ferry dock, where we’d look toward Hubbard’s Point, try to make out my family’s cottage.
The sun was going down now, and I thought of sunsets we had seen, times the sky had turned bright red, letting us know the next day would be blazing hot. And we wouldn’t care, because we could swim, and read in the shade, and let the sea breeze cool us.
I didn’t know what we had, I said.
“You and me?” he said.
Yes. And me and Tilly. All of us. I didn’t know how lucky I was. I took a lot for granted. Just look at this.
The river sparkled as the sky turned from bright blue to dark blue to violet. The crescent moon swung low in the west, cradling Venus, just above the deep-red sun. The view looked so beautiful, I wanted to drink it in so I could carry it with me when I returned to the hospital.
“This is just the first sunset of summer,” Newton said. “There will be so many more, and the best skies come in winter anyway. That’s when they’re so clear, and the stars are so close.”
Truer than true.
“Here it is,” I heard Tilly call. She came tearing down the path with Slater, holding the box I’d first seen when Newton had brought it to the hospital: my camera and the rig he had built.
I stared out at the water while Tilly held my camera, and Newton assembled the box, frame, straps, and helmet, and Slater stood by the water’s edge, watching the current. A boat sailed past, leaning into the wind. The breeze caught the sail, and the setting sun painted it gold.
Newton set me up and, without asking, pointed my chair exactly toward the moon and Venus. He had emailed Dr. Howarth again, and they had worked out the bug where previously the software could perform only one function at a time, so I had had to choose between shooting photos or speaking.
Now, by switching with a sharp glance upward, I could toggle between camera and communication. I looked through the viewfinder, spotted the silvery sky objects in the rose-colored twilight. The sailboat bisected the window, and I clicked one photo, then another.
Tilly checked the monitor and gasped.
“Roo, these are so good. You can definitely include them in your portfolio, and good old Serena Kader Barrois won’t know what hit her!”
We have to hurry, I said. The light is perfect.
I zoomed in on the sky, took a shot of the moon and planet that caught the moon’s thin edge of light and shadowed disc, along with Venus’s bright glare.
Could you turn my chair? I asked.
“To face away from the sunset?” Newton asked.
Yes, because I don’t want you to be backlit.
“Me?”
Yes, I’d like to take your picture.
“I can’t,” he said. “I have to hold the computer.”
“I can do that, man,” Slater said, bounding over. Newton showed him how the cables worked, told him not to get them tangled, told him to keep the computer steady.
Newton pivoted my wheelchair so I had my right side to the sun, moon, and Venus. I was facing downriver, toward Long Island Sound; there were the two lighthouses at Fenwick, one blinking white and the other green. Newton could imagine what I was seeing through the lens, and he stood directly in view.
Tilly, now you, I said.
“Where?” she asked.
Next to Newton, I said.
She seemed shy, and he looked nervous. But they did as I asked, stood side by side, arms barely touching as they faced the camera. I saw sadness and regret in both their faces, but I thought of Tilly’s dragons, and sent them chasing those old emotions away, sent them riding down the deep blue river on a fast current.
I wish you could see me smiling, I said.
“Smiling?” Newton asked.
Yes. Because I’m taking a picture of two people who love me. And who I love back.
That made them both grin. And this happened: I swear, even though the sky was deep blue and not fully dark yet, a single meteor plunged from heaven toward earth, blazing through the blue just behind their heads, and I took the shot and caught the moment.
“Should we go back now?” Tilly asked. “Are you getting tired?”
A little, but I want to stay longer.
So the four of us sat by the river, looking out at the moon and the sunset, and waiting for something else, something beautiful, maybe another shooting star, just for us.
Deep thanks to Susan Robertson for her understanding of the effects of trauma on the mind and heart, and for helping me translate the language of dreams.
I am grateful to Saffron Burrows for sharing her experience and compassion as someone who has long campaigned for the rights and equality of disabl
ed persons. Thank you also to Alison Balian for the wonderful conversations we had during the time I was writing this novel.
My gratitude to Richard Rieser and Susie Burrows for working toward inclusion and against the bullying of disabled children and people of all ages. Richard’s generosity in talking to me about his own experiences helped me imagine a child’s long hospital stay and understand more about the challenges of moving forward.
My mother had a brain tumor, and during her long illness I learned a lot about loving someone with a brain injury. The grace and humor she showed through her suffering has always inspired me. She was an artist, and she never gave up looking for beauty and meaning.
The brilliance and kindness of her neurosurgeon, Dr. Isaac Goodrich of Yale-New Haven Hospital, helped me see how critical a truly caring and never-giving-up doctor is to a patient’s well-being, both physical and emotional.
Sharon Salzberg’s teachings on mindfulness and loving-kindness have been invaluable to me, and now, to Roo.
I am grateful to my editor, Aimee Friedman, for her insight and sensitivity. Thanks to everyone at Scholastic, including David Levithan, Ellie Berger, Lori Benton, Alan Smagler, Betsy Politi, Nikki Mutch, Sue Flynn, Tracy van Straaten, Jennifer Abbots, Caitlin Friedman, Bess Braswell, Lauren Festa, Lizette Serrano, Anna Swenson, Elizabeth Parisi, Emily Cullings, Joy Simpkins, and Jennifer Ung.
My agent, Andrea Cirillo, and I have been together forever and a day, and I never forget how lucky I am to be part of the Jane Rotrosen family: Jane Berkey, Meg Ruley, Annelise Robey, Christina Hogrebe, Amy Tannenbaum, Rebecca Scherer, Peggy Boulos Smith, Danielle Sickles, Donald W. Cleary, Christina Prestia, Julianne Tinari, Michael Conroy, Liz Van Buren, Jessica Errera, Ellen Tischler, and Don Cleary.
Much appreciation to the incomparable Ron Bernstein.
So many thanks to Joe Monninger, my great friend and New Hampshire guide, for his constant encouragement in and out of the woods.
I am very grateful to all librarians, with special thanks to Amy Rhilinger, assistant director of the Attleboro Public Library, for her incredible support to readers and writers everywhere.
Luanne Rice is the New York Times bestselling author of several novels for adults. Altogether, her novels have sold upward of twenty-two million copies and have been adapted into TV movies and miniseries. The Secret Language of Sisters is her YA debut. Visit Luanne online at www.luannerice.net.
Copyright © 2016 by Luanne Rice
All rights reserved. Published by Point, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, POINT, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rice, Luanne, author.
The secret language of sisters / Luanne Rice.
pages cm
Summary: Mathilda (Tilly), fourteen, and Ruth Anne (Roo), sixteen, are sisters and best friends in Connecticut, but when Roo crashes her car while texting she is confined to a hospital bed with “locked-in syndrome,” aware of her surroundings, but apparently comatose—and Tilly must find a way to communicate with her sister, while dealing with her own sense of guilt.
ISBN 978-0-545-83955-6 (jacketed hardcover) 1. Sisters—Juvenile fiction. 2. Traffic accident victims—Juvenile fiction. 3. Coma—Patients—Juvenile fiction. 4. Text messaging (Cell phone systems)—Juvenile fiction. 5. Guilt—Juvenile fiction. 6. Connecticut—Juvenile fiction. [1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Traffic accidents—Fiction. 3. Coma—Fiction. 4. Text messaging (Cell phone systems)—Fiction. 5. Guilt—Fiction. 6. Connecticut—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.1.R53Se 2016
813.54—dc23
[Fic]
2015016008
First edition, March 2016
Cover image © Muna Nazak/Trevillion Images
Author photo by Kristina Loggia
Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi
e-ISBN 978-0-545-83956-3
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication 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 the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
