by Wendy Dunham
“Dad’s trying to make me get a brace just because Dr. Crane thinks I need one. But you won’t make me, will you!”
A tear must have snuck out because Gram reaches up and wipes one off my cheek. “Sugar Pie,” she says, “sometimes the wind’s gonna blow hard against you. But you gotta face it head on like an eagle so you can soar. Do you know those bald-headed birds can’t fly two inches unless the wind’s blowing against them?” She pulls me close to her side. “And if there’s one thing I know about my Sugar Pie, she’s gonna face that wind head on.” Then she rubs my head and gives me a smooch. “Do as your daddy says, Sugar Pie. You understand?”
I nod.
“Now get going cuz I’m gonna paint my Sugar Pie a polka-dotted mushroom.”
Dr. Crane says that what’s about to happen during my brace fitting will feel both awkward and embarrassing. But he insists it’s necessary.
To help get my mind off awkward and embarrassing, I make myself think of something I’m thankful for. I decide I’m thankful Dr. Crane’s not doing my fitting because he’s a man. The person who’s doing it is a lady. Her name is Ms. Honey Bunn. She’s nice and tries making me feel comfortable. But when she explains what I have to do, I find a second thing I’m thankful for—that Dad stayed in the waiting room.
Ms. Honey Bunn helps me put on a piece of material called a stockinet (it’s something like a really big sock but open at both ends). It reaches from my armpits, down past my hips. And I’m not allowed to wear anything underneath (Ms. Honey Bunn said it doesn’t bother her, so it shouldn’t bother me, which in theory should work).
She tells me to stand on a stool and hold my arms out to the side like I’m an airplane. While I pretend to be an airplane, she wraps rolls of warm wet plaster around me, covering every inch of stockinet.
“Now stand still while that sets,” she says. “Then I’ll cut it down the middle and get it off you.”
“You mean this isn’t my brace?”
Ms. Honey Bunn grabs her belly and laughs. “Oh no, River darling, you won’t be walking around in a plaster cast. This’ll be the mold I use to make your brace. I’ll make you a pretty one out of leather and metal.” She cocks her head. “Didn’t Dr. Crane show you what your brace will look like?”
I shake my head. “But I saw a picture of one in health class back in Punxsutawney. I thought maybe braces were different in West Virginia.”
“No, darling, they’re the same everywhere.”
“Well,” I tell Ms. Honey Bunn, “the brace I saw was made of leather and metal too, but it wasn’t pretty—the kid wearing it looked like a robot.”
“I know, darling, I’m just trying to make light. You can always dress it up with stickers.”
I think Ms. Honey Bunn has a screw loose. “Looking like a robot’s bad enough,” I say, “but adding stickers would only draw more attention.”
“I know, darling. Can’t say I blame you.” Ms. Honey Bunn cuts the plaster along an imaginary line down my middle and then pries it open so I can wiggle out.
Once my clothes are back on, Ms. Honey Bunn brings me to the waiting room. “She did wonderful,” she tells Dad. “Dr. Crane asked me to put a rush on her brace, so I’ll try to have it done next week. I’ll call the minute it’s ready.”
I’d like to tell Ms. Honey Bunn to take her own sweet time.
Afterward, Dad and I go to his studio. I can’t wait until he sees how clean it is.
When he opens the door, a burst of golden dandelions greets him. “You transformed the place, River.”
I pull on his arm. “Now come see the kitchen.”
Dad looks around and smiles. “Amazing what a little elbow grease will do.”
When I show him his office, I see the orange piece of paper I’d somehow stopped thinking about. Dad must see it too because while he’s telling me how much he appreciates me cleaning, he sneakily slips it out from under the lamp and into his pocket.
Our eyes meet. “What’s that?” I say, pretending I don’t know.
He shifts his gaze out the window. “Just a note to myself.”
“Why do you have to lie? I know what it is! A father’s not supposed to lie to his own daughter!” I run to the living room and grab The Birdsong Times. “And what about this?” I yell, pointing to Rosa’s phone number. “You’re dating her, aren’t you? How could you?” I throw the paper down. “We’re supposed be helping Mom remember so we can be a family again!” By now I’m crying so hard I can barely breathe. “Why are you keeping secrets?”
Dad tries wrapping his arms around me, but I pull away. “I should’ve never spent my life hoping you’d find me! Everything was fine when it was me and Gram.” I run outside and slam the door.
Dad yells after me, “I’m sorry, River. I should’ve handled things differently.”
I run all the way down Main Street, turn at Meadowlark Lane, and don’t stop until I reach my bedroom, where I cry into my pillow like I did once before… when Billy died.
16
Off to Sparrow Harbor
I must have cried myself to sleep because when I open my eyes, it’s almost dark. It’s probably around eight thirty. I sit up to find a note on my bed.
Dear River,
Please forgive me. I should have talked with you about Rosa. And I didn’t want you knowing where your mom is. If I had a chance to do it over, I’d handle things differently. I went to Henry and Elizabeth’s to get Zoey and the rest of your things. I didn’t want to wake you.
Be back shortly,
Dad
“It’s too late, Dad,” I say out loud even though he’s not here. I grab my overnight bag and stuff it with another set of clothes, a flashlight, and my diary. I find my heart necklace I wore the day I was stolen—it will help Mom remember. Then I get Gram’s stash of money from her dresser (it’s not stealing because she said it’s for emergencies). Next I take the picture of me that’s on Gram’s dresser and put it in my bag—the one taken when I was “adopted.” As soon as Mom sees it, she’ll remember.
Right before I leave, I stuff extra blankets in my bed so it looks like I’m there sleeping. Dad will check on me when he’s back from the Whippoorwills’ and think I’m sound asleep.
I run out the door and head down Meadowlark Lane. I’ve never walked along Meadowlark Lane alone in the dark before. But I’m okay. I’m not scared.
And then I hear it, just like Billy said I would—the call of the whippoorwill bird. It sounds exactly like Billy imitating one, a fast, high-pitched call that repeats over and over, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will.
Why isn’t Billy here when I need a friend?
I walk down Main Street, way past Dad’s studio, looking for the bus station. I know I’ve seen it here someplace. After about twenty more minutes of walking, I see the sign, lit up and flashing against the black night sky.
Except for the woman behind the counter and a couple people waiting with suitcases, the bus station is quiet and smells of cigarettes. I pull Mom’s address from my pocket and go to the counter. “One ticket to Sparrow Harbor please.”
The woman at the counter is wearing a man’s tank top, and she’s covered with tattoos. She doesn’t smile. “You’re early,” she says. “Sparrow Harbor don’t leave for another hour.”
“I know,” I say, trying to sound like I know what I’m doing.
She peers over the counter. “How old are you, anyway?”
I slowly rise to my tiptoes when I see the Ride Alone Policy posted behind her. “Fifteen, ma’am. I take after my mom. She’s a bit on the short side. In fact, that’s who I’m visiting in Sparrow Harbor.”
“Now, why is it that you don’t live with her?”
“Because my parents are divorced. I live with my father here in Birdsong.”
“Is that so,” she says. “I saw you walk here. Why didn’t he bring you?”
Gram warned me—one lie leads to another, causing a too-big sticky mess you can’t pull yourself out of.
&
nbsp; Despite the fact I’m stuck in the middle of stickiness, I keep right on lying. “Well, he couldn’t bring me because he’s working the night shift. You can call him if you’d like, or you can call my mother.” I show her Mom’s number.
Finally she smiles. “That’s all I needed.”
I let my breath out, take my ticket, and wait near the other people. I watch the clock for one hour straight, then get on the bus to Sparrow Harbor to help my mom remember.
Hardly anyone else is on the bus, so I choose a seat by the window. The driver announces, “Route to Sparrow Harbor departing now, arriving at approximately eleven thirty p.m.”
Only one hour. I press my head against the cool, hard window and watch Birdsong disappear.
The darkness and motion of the bus try putting me to sleep, but I force myself to stay awake and keep working on my plan: When I reach Sparrow Harbor, I’ll need a taxi to get to Mom’s. But it’ll be so late by the time I get there, she’ll probably be asleep. I might have to sleep outside until morning.
I fight to keep awake but drift in and out until the bus arrives at Sparrow Harbor. I grab my bag and get off, welcoming the fresh air.
There are taxis at the station, so I choose the first in line. “Seven thirty-one Swift Road south, please,” I tell the driver.
He looks at me in his rearview mirror. “It’ll be a quick ride, little lady.” Within five minutes he pulls into the driveway of a big, white, fancy house. And the only light that’s on is the one in the front yard, shining on a red front door.
I pay the taxi driver and climb out. After he pulls away, I stand in the driveway like an intruder, scared and shaky. All around the property is a tall white fence, and there’s two shiny cars parked on the big, blacktop driveway.
I creep past the garage to the backyard where there’s a pool, a swing set, and a tree fort—a safe place to stay until morning. As I climb the ladder, a dog bursts out from his doghouse and charges toward me. I hurry to the top, climb inside, and hide. I peek through an opening—he’s at the bottom of the ladder, barking like crazy.
“Shhh,” I whisper, “it’s okay. I won’t hurt you. Please don’t bark.”
The dog barks for what seems like forever, when a man (who I figure is Michael), opens a sliding glass door and yells, “Wilson, get in here. Come on, boy!” Wilson keeps barking. “Wilson, get over here.” Wilson doesn’t budge an inch from the base of the tree and barks even louder.
Finally Michael walks outside to Wilson. “What are you barking at, boy?”
I’m so scared I can’t move.
Michael’s standing by the ladder, rubbing Wilson’s back. “Did you chase a squirrel up there?” Michael climbs up and pokes his head in. Our eyes lock. At first we freeze, then he screams, which makes me scream.
Once we stop screaming and I catch my breath, I try explaining, “I’m sorry! It’s just me, River, the one who was stolen.”
“Wow!” he says. “You scared the daylights out of me.”
“I’m sorry.” I take a deep breath, hoping it’ll stop my shaking.
“Why are you hiding in our tree fort?”
“Because I didn’t want to wake anyone. I just want to meet my mom.”
Michael takes my hand. “Let’s get down and go inside.”
I climb down after him. Wilson greets me, wagging his tail. I follow Michael through the sliding glass door and into the kitchen. Just then a woman calls from upstairs, “Everything all right, Michael?”
He looks at me and puts his finger to his lips. “Everything’s fine, Margaret. Go back to sleep. I’ll be up in a minute.”
He leans in close and whispers, “I think it’s best we wait till morning.”
I nod even though I want to run upstairs and see her now.
“Follow me,” he says. “You can stay in the guest room.” I follow him through the living room and into a small, separate hallway to the guest room. It’s beautiful. Everything’s flowery. It even has its own bathroom. “Listen,” he says, “I need to get back upstairs before Margaret realizes something’s going on. I’m sure you’re exhausted, so let’s get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“But don’t come out of the room in the morning until you hear from me. I need to talk with Margaret first.” He walks out and quietly closes the door.
He’s so concerned about my mom that he didn’t mention a word about calling my dad. So far everything’s working out.
17
A Pleasure to Meet You
I wake to the sound of voices. I hear Michael and my mom and also two kids, maybe a boy and a girl. They’re eating breakfast—I smell coffee and hear the toaster pop up.
When they finish, Michael sends the kids outside to play and asks my mom to come to the living room with him. “Margaret,” he says, “remember how I told you that your former husband found your daughter, River?”
“Oh, Michael,” she says, “do we need to get into that again? You know how much it bothers me. I don’t remember them.”
“But you realize there’s a six-year period of your life that you’ve forgotten.”
“Honestly, Michael, that’s what I’m told. But sometimes I don’t know what to believe.”
“I would never lie to you, Margaret. I’m asking that you trust me. Will you do that?”
“I’ll try. What’s going on?”
“This will come as a shock,” he says, “but River came here last night. That’s why Wilson was barking.”
There’s silence.
Michael says, “She wants to meet you, Margaret. She’s waited her entire life, and she finally found you.”
“This is overwhelming,” she says. Then there’s more silence. “When does she want to meet me?”
“She’s here. In the guest room.”
“What? Michael!”
“I know it’s not what you expected this morning.”
“And just what am I supposed to say to her?”
“I don’t know. Let’s see how it goes.”
In a few seconds, Michael knocks on the door. “River? May I come in?” I open the door. “Come with me,” he says. “You can meet her now, but you need to realize she doesn’t know who you are. This will likely be very painful for you—I’m sure it won’t be the reunion you’ve been dreaming of.”
“I understand.” But part of me is realizing that maybe I don’t.
I follow Michael to the living room, where my mother sits on the couch smiling and looking awkward. I walk over and stand in front of her. “Hi, Mom. I know you don’t know who I am, and I know you don’t remember anything about me, but I’m River, your daughter. And I’m very pleased to meet you.”
She smiles and takes my hand. “Well, River,” she says, “You are quite a beautiful young lady, and it’s a pleasure to meet you as well.” She pats the couch next to her. “Please, sit down.” She looks at me like she’s trying so hard to remember. “Tell me about yourself, River.”
“Well, I’m almost thirteen. And I just recently met my dad, Jay Whippoorwill, the man you were married to. That’s how I found out where you live.”
All of a sudden, Michael jumps off the chair and shouts, “Does Jay know you’re here?”
I shake my head. “Not exactly, but it’s still early, so he probably doesn’t realize I’m gone. I made my bed look like I’m sleeping in it.”
My mom laughs.
“River,” he says, “I’d like you to call him now.”
“Oh, Michael,” says my mom, “let’s visit first, then she’ll call.” I knew I’d like her. She’s peaceful and kind. And Dad was right—she has curly brown hair like me. Then she continues, “So if you’ve recently met your dad, who raised you over the years?”
“A lady I’ve called Gram since I was eighteen months old.” Then I explain, “She’s actually the mother of the woman who stole me. But Gram never knew I was stolen until I met Dad. That’s because when her daughter and son-in-law stole me, they told Gram
they adopted me. Then after six months, they got tired of me and took off. That’s when Gram took me in.”
Mom’s crying now. “You poor dear.”
I reach for my necklace and show her the heart charm. “It has my name and birthdate on it, the only information I’ve had. I was wearing it when I was stolen.”
Mom reaches for it and rubs her fingers over it. “It’s precious.”
“I brought a picture too.” I hurry to the bedroom and pull it from my bag. When I show her, she strokes her hand across the glass, then leans to hug me.
“I want to remember so badly.” She reaches for my cheek to wipe a tear.
“Well,” says Michael, standing up, “I think it’s time you called your father.”
I was wrong. Dad didn’t think I was sleeping. When he came back from the Whippoorwills’ last night, he tried waking me up. He wanted to talk about what happened earlier at his studio. When I didn’t answer him, he tried shaking me and discovered the blankets. So by the sounds of it, I’m probably in trouble. He even called the sheriff’s office and organized a search party.
While Dad comes to get me, I meet my half brother and sister, Benjamin and Olivia (that’s their fancy names). Their nicknames are Bennie and Livvy. They’re seven and nine. They help make my breakfast.
After I eat, we make chocolate-chip cookies to pass the time. Bennie and Livvy both want to be near me, so I sit between them at the table. I help Bennie measure flour and sugar and help Livvy crack the eggs. Each time I look at my mom, I catch her staring at me. It’s almost as if she’s searching through her box of memories, hoping to find at least one that has to do with me.
When the last tray of cookies is finished, Michael looks out the window. “Jay’s here.”
I run to the door, and he wraps his arms around me. “Thank God you’re all right, River. I’ve been so worried.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I shouldn’t have made you worry. I just wanted to meet Mom, and it seemed like you weren’t helping.”
