by Ali Standish
Once Boomer and I start walking, though, my thoughts quickly turn back to Gram, my mind running over what Fina and I found out this morning.
Gram was sick as a child. Maybe for years. And when she recovered, Madeline Mitchell was her best friend. Until something happened between them. Except, if they weren’t friends anymore, how did Madeline know about the journal in the sycamore hollow?
The journal! Madeline took it last night when she ran. Could she have returned it by now? Maybe she’s written another chapter of the story. Or maybe she saw who was spying on her in the woods last night. Maybe she’ll have written me a note explaining everything.
Boomer and I fly down through the meadows and into the Spinney. I tell myself not to get my hopes up. That Madeline probably hasn’t had time to write back yet. Or that she might be too angry about our stakeout to write again at all.
But when I come to a stop, breathless beside the sycamore tree, I see that the journal has indeed been returned to the hollow. And when I flip eagerly through the pages, I see a new chapter waits for me inside.
After Ivy had been alone for some time, she felt the sudden presence of someone nearby in the forest. Someone watching her.
Then she felt Shilling’s warm tongue against her frozen cheek. She opened her eyes to see the great wolf dog standing over her, feebly wagging his tail.
“Shilling,” she said, her voice hoarse with frost, “I told you to leave me here.”
But over his silver shoulder, she noticed something strange. Two trees that had not been there before. And the longer she looked, the surer she was that they were not trees at all but girls, just like she was—only with bark instead of skin, long spindly branches for arms, and hair made of willow branches. One of them held in her wooden hands a stone cup.
“Drink,” she said. “It will do you good.”
Ivy took the cup and drank the liquid inside. It tasted of mulled blueberries and wild honey and afternoon sun. As she drank it, warmth spilled down her throat and spread throughout her insides until they were filled with summer.
She looked around the clearing then and found that she was surrounded by all manner of forest creatures—owls and foxes, dormice and squirrels, bees and deer and rabbits.
Except the longer Ivy stared back, the more certain she was that they were not animals at all. They had begun to shimmer. Suddenly, the foxes were elves with red cheeks and ginger hair. The dormice were timid gnomes that looked up at her with wide eyes. The bees were a colony of fairies, fluttering busily around their queen. The deer were fauns who bowed to her over their hooves.
“I don’t understand,” she said, drawing nearer to Shilling, who was, thankfully, still a wolf dog. “What’s going on?”
“Magic, of course,” said one of the tree girls, who Ivy thought might be a pixie.
“But Gran told me that all magic creatures were driven into extinction,” said Ivy.
“Almost,” said the other pixie. “Now we live only in the oldest of forests, and we take great precautions to keep ourselves hidden.”
“Only your gran could see us for what we truly are,” said one of the fauns.
“Why?” Ivy asked.
“Your grandmother was the Keeper of the Forest,” said the fairy queen, who wore a crown of clover and sat upon a throne of holly leaves. “A protector of its magic. As long as she was here, no harm could come to us.”
“But now she’s gone,” said the first pixie. “And the forest is in grave danger.”
“And you,” piped the second pixie, “are the only one who can save it.”
“Me?” gasped Ivy. “Why me?”
“Because, child,” the fairy queen explained, “you are of the forest. Your gran found you here as a babe, just as the last Keeper found her. You may look like a normal human girl, but you’ve more magic in your veins than any who stand before you. If you could look inside yourself, you would find a heart made of balsam bark, bones made of river rocks, and vines instead of veins, with the morning dew running through them.”
Ivy clutched herself, shaking her head. “No,” she said. “If this was true, my gran would have told me.”
“She could not,” said the faun in an airy voice. “The Keeper is forbidden to share the secrets of the forest.”
“But now you are Keeper,” said the first pixie.
“And you must banish the witch,” said the second pixie. “Or we are lost.”
“Even if I am what you say,” Ivy protested, “I am cursed. Can’t you see how I flicker? I’ll soon disappear altogether.”
Even now, she could see only the barest outline of the girl she had been before.
“Magic,” said the fairy queen placidly, “is all about how you see things.”
“The villagers saw it, too,” said Ivy.
“Because you believed it to be true,” said the fairy queen, “and so it was.”
“But you must fight to see the real truth,” said one of the elves, who until now had not spoken.
“The truth!” chanted the nearby gnomes. “The truth!”
“Change the way you see, girl,” said the fairy queen, “and you will change who you are.”
“You mustn’t disappear,” said the first pixie, “because if you disappear, we will, too.”
Ivy closed her eyes. She summoned the last seed of strength she carried within her, which she had not known she possessed. She could not let disappear all the creatures Gran had cared for.
She felt the dew of the forest surge through her vines, felt her balsam bark heart begin to pump with hope.
And when she opened her eyes again, she saw herself for what she truly was. Strong and sturdy as the tallest tree in the forest. Fast and pure as the clear river running through it.
Ready to face the witch.
38
On Sunday morning, I am woken up by a rumble of thunder and Boomer—who hates thunderstorms—inching closer to me in bed. All night long, I dreamed of trees coming to life and witches flying over them.
I open the curtain, letting the stormy light in. When it hits my skin, it turns my vitiligo patches almost to silver. They actually look kind of beautiful.
I look down at my arms, lightly tracing the outline of my patches and thinking about Ivy’s story.
The Keeper is forbidden to share the secrets of the forest.
Is Madeline trying to tell me something? That there’s a reason Gram kept so much from me?
Ready to face the witch.
Is this an invitation to come and see Madeline? She is the one who wrote the woman in the white cloak into the story, after all. Maybe that’s how she sees herself. But why? The witch in the story kills Ivy’s gran. But Madeline didn’t kill my gram. Cancer did.
There’s something about the way Madeline writes that’s so familiar. Like how the magical creatures shimmer into sight just like the charmed folk used to do for me.
I think there’s something else, too, though—something staring me right in the face that I’m just not seeing.
Change the way you see, girl . . . and you will change who you are.
Another crack of thunder, and Boomer leaps out of bed and cowers by the door.
“Come on, boy,” I say, throwing off the covers, “let’s get you some breakfast.”
He follows me downstairs, where Lily is just sitting down at the table to eat her omelet. Mom and Dad are nowhere to be seen.
“Morning,” I say.
“Morning, Emma.”
I fix Boomer’s breakfast—nothing distracts him like food—and am sitting down to pour myself a bowl of cereal when I realize Lily is staring at me.
She thinks she’s really good about doing it only when I can’t see, but I can feel her gaze. She might as well be tapping my shoulder.
I look up, ready to tell her to mind her own business, but there’s something funny about the way she’s staring at me. Like she might be about to cry.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Oh, no . . . did you . . . ? Is it Yale
?”
“No, that’s not it,” she says, and I swear her eyes are welling with tears. First Mom, then Edie, now Lily. It’s like an epidemic.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
She sighs. “It probably sounds stupid, but I’m just, well, really proud of you.”
My mouth drops open a little.
“And maybe a little bit jealous, too.”
It drops more. Lily? Jealous of me? “Why?” I ask.
“You’re my little sister, Emma,” she says, swiping a tear. “But you’re like a hundred times braver than I’ve ever been. If it was me who had vitiligo, I would probably think it was the end of the world.”
“Um, is this supposed to be making me feel good?” I ask. “Because if it is—”
Lily rolls her eyes, more at herself than me, I think. “Sorry. What I’m trying to say is that I love how you aren’t afraid to be who you are.”
I blink a few times. Since when is this how Lily sees me?
“I thought you were ashamed of me.”
She shakes her head, silky hair shining under the kitchen lights. There’s another rumble of thunder outside. “Of course not, Emma! Why would I be ashamed?”
“Because you and Mom always want everything to be perfect, like you are. I thought that’s why you taught me to do my makeup. Because you both wanted me to hide my patches.”
A crease shoots down between Lily’s eyebrows like a lightning bolt. Her chin trembles. Suddenly she doesn’t look so perfect. She just looks like my sister.
“Have you ever thought that maybe we just act perfect because we’re afraid?” she asks, her voice thick. “Afraid that if we don’t get into perfect schools or have perfect Instagram posts, people will see the truth? That we have flaws, too? And then—and then—”
In case you’re wondering, the answer is no. I have never, ever until this moment thought of Lily or Mom as being afraid. Of anything, besides maybe grass stains. “Nobody’s perfect, Lily,” I say quietly.
She takes a big bite out of her omelet and talks as she chews, something I’m pretty sure she’s never done in her entire life. “Sometimes I think— I’ve spent so long trying to be perfect that it’s all I have. Without perfect, I don’t really know who I am.”
“You’re my sister,” I say. “That’s who.”
“A sister who is so not ashamed of you,” she replies, grabbing my hand from across the table. “I showed you how to do your makeup because, if it were me, I would wear it. Because I’d be afraid. But it’s not me. It’s you. And I think if you want to wear makeup, it’s cool. And if you don’t, that’s really cool.”
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”
“You stopped talking to me!” she says, a hint of frustration rising in her voice. “I was trying to be supportive, and you were giving me the cold shoulder. I thought you were the one who didn’t want anything to do with me.”
I squeeze her hand. Besides the night Lily did my makeup, this is the only other time I can ever remember actually feeling like I had a real sister instead of a stranger living in the next bedroom.
It feels extremely wonderful.
But I can’t help but feel bad, too. I knew Lily was going through kind of a hard time, and I haven’t been there for her at all.
“I’m sorry I gave you the cold shoulder,” I say. “And I’m really not that brave.”
It’s funny. Lily thinks I’m brave because I’m not afraid to show the world who I am, but I don’t even know who that is anymore.
“You’re braver than you think.”
“Well, maybe you are, too,” I say. “When are you going to tell Mom? About wanting to take a year off?”
“Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. I think I’ll wait and see if I get into Yale first. If I do and they let me defer a year, she probably won’t be as upset.”
“I’ll be there when you tell her. You know, for moral support. If you want, I mean.”
Lily smiles. “Thanks, Emma. You should talk to Mom, too. Tell her what you told me.”
“Maybe,” I mumble.
She takes a thoughtful sip of her coffee.
“Sometimes I wonder,” she says slowly, “if I’d spent more time with Gram, like you did, if I would be a little braver, too. Gram was so . . . original, wasn’t she? The long dresses and the parasols and stuff. I always thought it was weird, but now I think she was pretty cool. She wasn’t afraid of what anyone thought.”
“So, why didn’t you?” I ask. “Spend more time with her?”
She shrugs. “You two had your little club. And I always got the feeling that maybe Gram looked down on me sometimes. Both of you. Because I’d rather fit in than stand out.”
“Maybe I did sometimes,” I say slowly, “but not Gram. I don’t think Gram looked down on anybody.”
“You remind me of her, you know. You have her spirit.”
“Really?” I ask. I look down at my hands for some reason, like I’ll be able to see the shape of her palms in mine.
“Really,” says Lily.
Suddenly, I fling myself out of my chair and wrap my arms around her. Because even with all my questions about Gram, it still means everything that Lily would say something like that to me. “Thanks, Lily,” I whisper.
My sister hugs me tight in answer.
39
It rains all morning. After breakfast, Lily leaves to go to a study group, and I start back up to my room. I keep thinking about what Lily said. You have her spirit.
Dad told me I knew Gram’s heart.
I want to believe them so badly. But how do I know if it’s true? How do I find the real Gram?
Whenever I have a problem, her voice echoes in my head, I like to retrace my steps.
Maybe if I retrace her steps, I can find something to explain what she was hiding. My heart lifts as I think that maybe she even left me something to explain it. I just haven’t found it yet.
I take the last few stairs two at a time. I decide to start with the studio because that’s the one room in Gram’s house that no one’s been in much since she died. She could have left something there for me in plain sight and I wouldn’t know it.
It hits me as soon as I walk in—that smell of paint and canvas so strong that, for a second, I’m sure I’ll look up to see Gram sitting at her easel.
I think part of the reason no one’s really come in here is because none of us knows what to do with the paintings that she never finished.
They’re all landscapes—of the river and meadows mostly, one of Old Joe’s farm at sunset, and one of a garden with a lily pond. I’ve never seen that one before—the painting or the garden. Gram was painting it in the same broad, swooping strokes and bright, contrasting colors that she always used. They made everything come to life.
Tearing my gaze from the unfinished paintings, I search the room top to bottom. The rain beats on the old windowpanes, making them rattle as I look in her desk drawers, then in her filing cabinets. I even walk around, bouncing lightly on each floorboard in hopes that one might be loose.
But there’s nothing.
Disappointed, I pad down the hall to my room. I look under the bed, run my eyes over the family pictures atop the bedside table, then search the bureau drawers. My heart gives a hopeful leap when I find a stack of pictures in the bottom bureau drawer, but they are all of Gram, Grandpa, and Dad right after he was born. Turns out, he really was a fat baby.
The last place I search is the closet.
And that’s where I find it, tucked up in the very darkest corner, behind one of Gram’s floor-length dresses.
A small green shoebox with faded golden writing.
It takes me a while to realize that I’ve seen it before.
It was the winter afternoon years ago when I’d come in to find Gram looking out the window at the snow, and she’d been angry at me for not knocking. She had been so strange that day, telling me I didn’t ever have to come to Morning Glory Cottage if I didn’t want to. I want
this house to be a happy place for you, she’d said.
There had been two things on her lap: The World at the End of the Tunnel by R. M. Wildsmith. And this shoebox, which she’d shoved under the bed. But then we’d started reading The World at the End of the Tunnel for the first time, and I had barely given the box another thought.
But now, all these years later, here it is.
I pry it open carefully because the box is really old, the cardboard soft under my fingers.
Inside, there are three things. The first is a book of poems by somebody called Gerard Manley Hopkins. I flip through it to see that someone—Gram, probably—has underlined certain phrases and words and starred some of the poems.
I put the book aside in favor of the next thing I see in the box: a picture.
It’s a framed family portrait of a man, a woman, and a girl. The man stands over them both, with a hand on each of their shoulders. The photo is in color, but deeply faded. And there’s something very odd about it. Nobody is smiling.
The man kind of resembles Dad, except he wears a smugly satisfied expression that I can’t imagine on Dad’s face. The woman has an upturned nose and a prim smirk that I can’t quite call a smile because there’s no joy in it.
They certainly look stern.
And the girl—the girl is a teenaged Gram. Actually, she looks a lot like Lily. Her hair is curled into cheerful ringlets, and she wears a bright, pretty dress, but if you look past those things, you can tell that she’s unhappy. In fact, she’s wearing the very same look she wore that day I came in to find her holding this shoebox. Like some secret sadness had followed her all the way from this picture to that moment.
I gingerly place the photo on top of the poetry book and pick up the last thing in the box. It’s a little notebook, the pages brittle as fallen leaves. Inside, the lined sheets are covered with drawings instead of writing. Little sketches of fairy couples dancing in the moonlight, gnomes peeking out from hollowed trees, a stone palace with turrets spiraling up from each corner. Every page is filled.
