Ghosting

by Edith Pattou

  that night.

  All of us.

  And suddenly it’s like a

  giant bank of klieg lights

  flashes on

  in my head.

  Anil is also

  now,

  and

  here,

  in my front doorway,

  asking me out on

  a date.

  So is it possible that maybe,

  just maybe,

  Anil might be

  a new now time,

  like in Joey Pigza,

  that bit I was reading Felix

  when he

  woke

  up?

  Anil is looking at me,

  intently,

  watching my face

  as if his

  entire life

  depended on

  my

  answer.

  Then he suddenly says,

  Oh wait . . .

  and digs into his pocket.

  He pulls out something small

  and puts it

  in my hand.

  I look down at what lies

  in my palm.

  A piece of frosty green

  sea glass.

  Then I look back up at him

  and smile.

  He smiles back,

  that great shining smile of his

  I’d almost forgotten,

  and all at once

  I can

  breathe

  again.

  In fact, I feel light and radiant,

  like a thousand tiny suns

  are shining

  in my heart.

  Yes, I say.

  ANIL

  1. I feel as if gulal has just been

  thrown all over me.

  That I am drenched

  with color.

  A walking talking

  incarnation of

  radiant

  Technicolor.

  Tie-dyed.

  Anointed.

  Happy.

  Tuesday, July 12

  EMMA

  We are at Gillson Beach,

  the three of us,

  Max, Felix, and me.

  It is about five o’clock

  on a hot, but not too hot,

  evening in July.

  Most of the sunbathers and

  swimmers have gone home,

  but the smell of suntan lotion lingers.

  The sand is still warm and I dig

  my toes in, gazing down at the

  webbing of scars on my right leg.

  We’re up at the top of the beach,

  where the grassy area

  meets the sand.

  And we’re sitting on a blanket, eating

  guacamole Felix made. He’s still obsessed

  with guacamole, which is okay by me.

  I have a date this weekend, Maxie says out of the blue.

  What? I say, not sure I heard right.

  A date, with Anil Sayanantham, she says.

  About time, says Felix, giving Maxie a high five.

  Well, hey, that’s great, I say, surprised, but at the same time happy for her.

  Then I lie back on the blanket,

  closing my eyes and listening to the

  steady gentle sound of waves on the sand.

  I can feel Maxie get up off the blanket,

  then hear the click of her camera, and I open my eyes,

  to see what she’s taking a photo of.

  She’s pointing her camera at a bur oak tree,

  and sitting on one of the branches,

  is a black bird. A crow.

  And for just a second my vision goes red.

  I see blood smearing the surface of

  Polly’s rubber crow, and I start to shake.

  Emma? comes Felix’s voice.

  Oh God, I’m sorry, cries Maxie, instantly lowering her camera. I didn’t think . . .

  Felix reaches over

  and takes my hand.

  His is warm, reassuring.

  It’s okay, he says, his voice definite. Crows are beautiful, Emma. Smart and strong. Survivors. Like us.

  MAXIE

  Emma is eating

  a brownie,

  and Felix is reading

  a book out loud to her,

  not Joey Pigza but some

  new book of poetry he’s

  obsessed with,

  about a

  hidden driveway.

  It must be funny because

  they’re both laughing

  a lot.

  I wander down to

  the water and walk

  along the shoreline.

  I am clutching the piece of

  sea glass Anil gave me.

  I come to this intersection

  of sand and a long promontory

  of rocks

  that juts out

  into the lake

  and spot something large-ish

  sticking up

  out of the sand.

  I think it’s just a big rock

  that’s fallen

  off the seawall,

  but when I look closer

  I see I’m wrong.

  Not quite believing

  what I’m seeing,

  I whip out

  my camera.

  Lodged in the sand,

  its head at an angle,

  is a stone statue.

  It is worn and faded

  and streaked with

  seaweed and lichen,

  but I can clearly see that it is a

  garden gnome.

  I start taking photos

  from different angles,

  and am so absorbed that I

  don’t even notice when

  Felix and Emma

  come up behind me.

  We wondered what you found, says Emma.

  They peer at the gnome.

  Excellent, says Felix, bursting out laughing.

  And the three of us

  sit in a semicircle

  around it

  while I take a few more

  photos.

  I kind of remember reading about this, says Emma, in the town paper, about a bunch of statues that were stolen from people’s yards and then buried in the sand at Gillson Beach. Some middle school boys playing a prank. It was last summer, back before . . . , she trails off.

  Yeah, I remember, I say.

  I gaze at the gnome

  and think how he must’ve gotten

  washed out

  into the lake,

  but the tide finally

  brought him back

  to shore.

  And then I look at

  Emma’s leg,

  Felix’s fake eye,

  and even into

  my own fragile but healing heart

  and think that somehow it all

  fits together.

  We fit together.

  EMFAX.

  On this day.

  On this beach.

  With this garden gnome.

  In this new now time.

  Acknowledgments

  It has been a long road back and here is who I want to thank:

  MELANIE, my editor and own personal white bird miracle, who said yes and asked all the right questions. I can’t imagine a finer travel companion.

  RUBIN, agent extraordinaire, who took the train from Boston, bought me a Cobb salad, and told me what he would do. And he did it, with persistence, creativity, and grace.

  DAVID and JACK, for bringing me back to life that night in the labyrinthine Italian restaurant. And also to Jack for his good will about using Joey Pigza. I know it’s the way I’d want to wake up from a coma.

  CILLE, cousin/sister/best friend, who always believed.

  VITA and MATT, who read the manuscript side by side in the sunroom and gave me two thumbs-up. And also to Matt for turning me on to the Poetry Foundation app.

  TIM, for giving the green light, being glad to see me b
ack, and for his excellent taste in music.

  MICHAEL, former editor, former agent, and still dearest pal, for sending me pics of Aidan Quinn and for still making me laugh.

  MIRIAM, who deftly guided me through the home stretch with patience, wisdom and a keen eye.

  MY OHYA LADIES—Erin, Linda, Lisa, Margaret, Rae, Natalie, and Julia—whose support and good cheer have meant the world to me.

  MY TROL LADIES—Beth, Carol, Claudia, the other Edie, Kristen, Lorrie, Nancianne, Sandy, and Sylvia—amazing librarians, teachers, and passionate champions of children’s literature.

  DRS. TIM RICHARDS and CHRIS SAUNDERS, for their impeccable consultation on all things medical.

  CHARLES, for being my first reader and best friend.

  About the Author

  EDITH PATTOU is the author of the New York Times bestselling picture book, Mrs. Spitzer’s Garden, as well as three award-winning fantasy novels for young adults, including East, which was chosen one of the “100 Best of the Best Young Adult Books for the 21st Century” by the Young Adult Library Association. It was also selected an ALA Top Ten Best Book for Young Adults, an ALA Notable Children’s Book, and a School Library Journal Best Book of the Year. A former librarian and bookseller, Edith Pattou lives in Columbus, Ohio. You can visit her at www.edithpattou.com