It was a risk. If the ancient guardians realized she had escaped, their wrath would be terrible, the queen knew.
But the Everwood needed her. No one else loved it as she did.
The distant howls bled on—ravenous, impatient.
“You will not destroy my forest,” the queen told the darkness. She jumped from the wall onto the sodden ground, and her palms turned black with wet ash. “I will find you, whatever you are, and I will make this world right again.”
Then the queen struck out into the dying trees, parting the fog like curtains of shadow.
32
ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON EVERYONE COMES over to Hart House, and Grandma tells us kids we have to clean the attic before dinner.
At this pronouncement Gretchen groans and throws herself onto the floor. Ruth whispers something to Dex, and then they do the same.
“Why?” Gretchen whines.
Grandma snaps on her pink rubber gloves. “Because it’s filthy, that’s why, and we’ve been putting it off for too long. Stand up. Acting childish is not attractive.”
“I am a child,” Gretchen mutters under her breath.
Avery smirks at Gretchen. “I don’t think anyone but you cares about the state of the attic, Grandma.”
“And isn’t that a shame? Come on, Harts. Snap to it.”
The staircase to the attic is narrow and tall, and the steps creak beneath our feet. Kennedy has a twin in each hand. “Isn’t this fun, you guys?” she says. “It’s like going on an adventure.”
Beside me Gretchen crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue at Kennedy.The attic is gigantic, the size of Hart House. The ceiling is low, with thick wooden rafters. Three small, round windows on each wall let in sunlight that paints the room in bright streaks and dust clouds.
There is a mannequin wearing a ratty hat, a huge mirror half-covered with a sheet. A collection of old bicycles. A smell of dust. One corner of the attic is decorated with faded paper shapes nailed to the wall and colored with crayons. Boxes crowd the floor: plastic boxes, cardboard boxes, old wooden chests and crates.
“Avery, you and Dex take that wall.” Grandma points to the piles nearest us. “Kennedy and Ruth, start cleaning the windows. Gretchen, you and your grandfather will start over there, and Finley?” Grandma touches my shoulder. “You’ll stick with me.”
My grandmother’s hand is warm and feels as light as a sigh against my skin. When Grandpa passes her, she plants a kiss on his cheek.
(Four people in a house of twelve know what is inside her, and I am one of them.)
(I wish I were not.)
Gretchen drags herself over to Grandpa. “Shouldn’t our parents have to clean too?”
“By all means, keep whining,” says Grandpa calmly, “and I’ll make you clean this entire attic by yourself.”
“You wouldn’t!”
Grandpa raises one bushy gray eyebrow. “Try me, granddaughter of mine.”
Gretchen shuts up.
We sweep away dirt and cobwebs, dust windowsills, and sort through boxes. Grandma arranges three piles: toss, keep, donate. There are boxes labeled KITCHEN, CHRISTMAS, TOOLS.
BRIDGET. DEE. STICK (THE GREATEST).
LEWIS.
I see my father’s box before Grandma does and tug it around the corner behind the covered Christmas tree so she cannot see it. I grab Grandpa’s knife when he is not looking and slice open the box.
Inside is a bag of marbles, an old model car. Books, ribbons for school writing contests, award certificates. A story titled “The Not-So-Great Gatsby” written on yellowed, lined paper.
Photos of Dad as a boy, making faces for the camera, flexing nonexistent muscles.
Dad with my aunts. My age. Avery’s age. Arms linked.
I run my fingers across their faces, imagining I can feel cheekbones, noses, ears. Aunt Bridget is the tallest; her smile squishes her eyes. Dad’s ears are too big for his face. Stick has crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. Dee is making a kissy face.
Grandma has called my aunts upstairs. I hear them exclaiming over their own boxes.
I tuck the photo of them and Dad into my pocket. It does not deserve to be stuck in a box.
Then I find a note, wedged between a high school yearbook and a spelling bee trophy.
Dad’s handwriting has not changed much; I immediately recognize the messy letters:
Mom:
I’m leaving.
By the time you find this, I’ll be gone.
I already told Dad. Don’t get mad at him. I made him swear not to tell you.
This is your fault. Don’t think for one second that it isn’t.
“Finley, where did you go? Come help me with this bag of clothes. We can donate most of them, I think.”
I jump at the sound of Grandma’s voice. The letter falls from my hands.
“Whatever is the matter with you?” Grandma feels my forehead. “You look flushed.”
I jerk away from her, grab the letter, and hurry across the attic toward the door. “I . . . have to go to the bathroom.”
“Wait. Stop right there.”
Grandma’s voice cuts the room in half. Everyone stops cleaning to stare at us. She must have seen Dad’s box. “What do you have in your hand?”
“Nothing.” I try to stuff the letter into my pocket, but Grandma is too quick. She grabs the letter, and I pull away. It rips in half.
“Give that to me.” She holds out her hand for my piece, her mouth thin. “That is not for you.”
Gretchen jumps down from her step stool. “What is that?”
I back away from Grandma and start to read. “ ‘Mom: I’m leaving. By the time you find this, I’ll be gone.’ ”
“Finley, don’t.” Grandma’s voice is steady, like she is trying not to frighten a wild animal. “Give that to me, now.”
“ ‘I already told Dad. Don’t get mad at him. I made him swear not to tell you.’ ”
Aunt Dee gasps. Aunt Bridget says, “Dad,” in a strained voice.
“Come on, Finley-boo.” Stick smiles at me, like we are all playing a game. “Let’s not make a big deal out of this.”
Grandpa stares at the letter, his shoulders slumped.
“I thought I told you to throw that away,” Grandma tells him quietly.
“I couldn’t, Candace,” Grandpa says. “I thought it was important to remember.”
“Remember what? That our son left us? That he wants nothing to do with us?” Grandma catches me by surprise, grabs my wrist, tears my piece of the letter from my hand.
I am too shocked to move. “Give it back. It’s mine.”
“It isn’t,” she says calmly, tearing both pieces of the letter into halves, quarters, eighths. “It’s nothing.”
Stick hugs me from behind, kisses my cheek. “Finley, how about you and me go downstairs and find some music, huh? We’ll turn it up real loud, fill the whole house.”
I yell at Grandma, “You don’t love him. None of you love him. I love him. It’s mine. You’re a thief!”
Dex starts to cry. Avery holds him close, shushes him. I cannot look at her. I do not like hearing Dex cry. Everyone is watching me. What are they thinking?
“We don’t have time for this,” Grandma says. “Let’s get back to work. All right? Chop-chop.” There is nothing in her voice—no anger, no sadness. A blank canvas as white as her hair.
(Fake, fake, fake.)
I break free of Stick’s arms and run downstairs.
• • •
Gretchen sneaks into my room and sits beside me on the bed, swinging her legs. “You really freaked out my mom earlier.”
“I don’t care what she thinks.” I am facing away from her, staring out the window, not seeing anything but the memory of that letter in my hands.
This is your fault. Don’t think for one second that it isn’t.
“You freaked me out, yelling at Grandma like that.”
I ignore her. “What did you think of the letter?”
> “God, Finley, I don’t know. Can’t we forget about it?”
I sit up and face her. “Don’t be a coward, Lady Gretchen.”
“Quit it with the Everwood crap, okay, Finley? This isn’t about some game. It’s about our family.”
“It isn’t a game. It’s real.”
“It is a game. It was our game, and it’s over now. Okay?” Gretchen looks away and wipes her eyes. “You’re so weird. Why are you being like this?”
I don’t know what to say to her. This is not my Gretchen; this is an impostor. I do not cry in front of impostors.
“I found this.” I hand her the photo of her mom, my dad, our aunts—all four of them blond and tan with summer.
Gretchen examines it for a long time. I hear Stick calling for her downstairs. They’re not staying for the night, even though I know they normally would.
Once again I have ruined everything.
“Don’t let Grandma see it.” Gretchen hands the photo back to me. “It’s a good picture.”
“Gretchen?” I call out.
She stops at the door. “Yeah?”
“I love you. I’m sorry I freaked you out.”
Gretchen hurries back and hugs me. When I am ready to let go, she doesn’t.
“Why do you think he wrote it?” she whispers. “Why did he leave?”
Her breath smells like Grandma’s homemade icing, and my eyes fill up. My Gretchen.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But maybe the Everwood will tell me.”
“My mom might tell us. We could ask her over and over until she gives in. I’m really good at being annoying. I know her weaknesses.”
“No. Not yet. I need time to think. Okay? Promise me you won’t ask your mom, or talk to her about any of this. Okay? Please, Gretchen.”
(If I ask too many questions, I am afraid of what Grandma and Grandpa might do to me.)
(Will they make me leave too?)
“Okay, okay.”
“Gretchen?” Stick knocks on my door. “Now. I mean it.”
Gretchen squeezes me tight and kisses my cheek. When she is gone, I look for a specific list in my notebook.
WHY MY DAD LEFT THE FAMILY
• Because he was called away on an adventure that required him to sacrifice all personal ties.
■ But then he got married, so that can’t be it.
♦ Unless . . . am I part of some secret international plot? (Unlikely.)
• Because they wanted him to take over Grandpa’s business with Uncle Reed, but he didn’t want to. (But why would that be a secret?)
• Because he was different. (Like me.)
• Because of Grandma.
HE QUEEN FOLLOWED THE HOWLS through the Everwood.
Above her the crow’s dark wings slashed through the fog, leaving trails of light behind.
The light vanished quickly.
“Hurry,” hissed the snake, winding through the brittle grass.
“Hurry,” urged the fox, nipping at the queen’s ankles.
“You go too quickly!” gasped the queen. “I cannot breathe in this darkness!”
But the crow, the snake, and the fox did not slow. There was no time left for pity.
They cut through a clearing and took a trail alongside the river—and here the queen stopped.
She felt the weight of malevolent eyes upon her.
She realized that the howls had stopped.
All around her was a thick quiet, heavy with danger.
“Crow?” she whispered. “Fox? Snake?”
They did not answer her.
But someone else did.
33
I HAVE DECIDED THAT PEOPLE do not come to your rescue, like they do in the movies. If they did, I would not feel this way right now.
(Even though I have Jack, Gretchen, the Everwood?)
(Yes, even so.)
Perhaps I have to rescue myself.
Which is difficult to do, when you are as tired as I am.
When you wake up to a bedroom full of morning sunshine and feel like crying for no particular reason.
When you are weighed down by something you do not understand.
(Breathe, Finley.)
(Don’t let them see.)
• • •
Unfortunately, I cannot remain in bed today.
Grandma, Stick, and Aunt Dee are taking me, Kennedy, and Gretchen to a farmers’ market Grandma organized for the WIC clinic. We are to wear bright name tags and man the information table and talk to people about healthy eating.
I protest, claiming I have come down with the flu, but Grandma does not believe me.
She marches into my bedroom at eight o’clock on Saturday morning, throws open my curtains, and flings my quilt off me.
I barely manage to slip my notebook under my pillow before the sunlight hits me.
I am sure I look terrible; I slept for perhaps a total of one hour. Not that it matters. I wrote three Everwood stories, and creative expression is salubrious.
(Ten-letter word: “healthy, beneficial, invigorating.”)
“Rise and shine, Finley! We need to be downtown by ten.”
Grandma searches through my collection of new dresses until she finds one that satisfies her: a long sundress with a white top and a yellow skirt. She lays it out on my bed.
“Get dressed, sweet girl. We have to pick up your aunts, and I won’t be late.”
“Grandma,” I croak, “I really don’t feel well.”
“Nothing a little work and conversation can’t fix!” Grandma finds a pair of suitable shoes. “Here, these will do. Come, get up. You’ll love the market. Lots of fresh air, fresh food, nice people, and sunshine. Tell me that doesn’t sound just marvelous.”
She pauses at the door, smiling.
When I look more closely, I realize her hand is gripping the door, hard. She is leaning on the door frame.
Her makeup is flawless, but I see a strip of sweat along her hairline.
I peel her smile away and see . . .
What must it feel like to have a poisonous disease growing inside you, eating you up bit by bit?
Surely it feels a lot worse than feeling sad.
Sadness is for people who lose their families in a house fire.
Sadness is for people who have cancer.
“Okay.” My head is swimming and aching; moving is like trying to run through water.
“I hope you’re feeling better than you were yesterday. No allergies from the dust, I hope?”
WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A HART
• If you have a fight in the attic in front of everyone, if you freak out your aunts, if you make your cousins cry, you don’t talk about it the next day. Obviously.
• Acting so childish is not attractive.
• We are grown-ups here. We are normal.
I imagine carving a smile onto my face from the inside out. I will not say anything about that letter from my father. In this clean, white bedroom it does not exist.
Perhaps it is my imagination, but Grandma seems to stand up straighter once she sees me smile. She comes over and hugs me, kisses my hair, tells me that we will have a lovely day together and that everything will be fine.
So I know I am doing the right thing.
• • •
The farmers’ market is in the square downtown. Rows of covered tables hold boxes of fruits and vegetables, local cheeses, fresh flowers.
Grandma and I sit at a table near the front of the market, wearing our name tags and pointing people where they need to go. Gretchen, Kennedy, Stick, and Aunt Dee drift through the crowd, handing out flyers about WIC services.
I could stand up and call out their names, and they would all turn to me—but I nevertheless feel very far away from them, like we are separated by hundreds of miles.
“Candace, good to see you! Great turnout, don’t you think?” It is Roxann Bates, who was at the 10K race earlier this summer. She bustles by, carrying bushels of basil.
That race seems l
ike it happened in another life. I was a different Finley then. I knew nothing about fires or sick grandmothers or boys named Jack.
“Absolutely!” Grandma calls out. “Those mailers did the trick! Couldn’t have done it without you.”
Roxann Bates salutes Grandma. “You’re the mastermind! I’m just good at stuffing envelopes. Ha!”
Roxann Bates hurries off, waving at someone else and calling out, “Wait! Mark, don’t put the tomatoes there!”
When Roxann is gone, Grandma touches my arm. Her face is pale, sweaty, splotchy. Her eyelids flutter. “Will you excuse me, Finley? I need to use the ladies’ room.”
“Are you okay?”
“Nothing to worry about. If you need help while I’m gone, get Stick, all right?”
“But, Grandma—”
“Finley, please. Everything is fine.” Then Grandma squeezes my hand and leaves.
I sit very still and count to thirty, which is all I can handle. I find Aunt Dee and wave her over.
Her face is flushed with the sun. Her eyes sparkle. This is what a healthy person looks like.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I tell her. “Can you watch the table?”
Aunt Dee adjusts the visor I am wearing—one of Grandma’s, as white as her fake, fake hair. “Where’s your grandmother?”
“Talking to anyone she can find.”
Aunt Dee laughs. “Of course. Sure, go on. The library’s letting us use their restrooms.”
I weave through a forest of people. The sun is too bright, reflecting off everyone’s shoes and bags and sunglasses. Flashes of light blind me. There are tons of kids here, little ones. They’re laughing and screaming and talking and crying, and my heart is a drumroll, and I need to find Grandma now.
It is quiet and cool inside the library. Pam the librarian waves at me from her desk. I wave back and go the other direction.
(Grandma, please be okay.)
In the women’s restroom someone is getting sick in the farthest stall. I hurry inside another one and sit on the toilet and pull my feet up so I become invisible.
It’s Grandma, in the farthest stall. Grandma, getting sick.
It goes on for way too long, and I make myself listen instead of covering my ears, because if she has to feel that, then someone else should have to hear it. It is too lonely otherwise.
Some Kind of Happiness Page 18
