by Kevin Henkes
Funny, Amelia felt more at home with these perfumy, friendly old women than she did with girls her own age. Was that strange?
When the food was ready, Amelia looked through the books Mrs. O’Brien had spread out on the coffee table. Emily Dickinson was the poet to be discussed. Mrs. O’Brien had put together a mini-library—there were biographies, books of poems, even a few children’s books. Some of the books had Post-it notes marking certain pages. Amelia picked up a well-worn paperback that had several Post-it notes sticking out of it.
Earlier that school year, Amelia had studied Emily Dickinson in Ms. Noggle’s English class. Amelia had memorized the poem that began, “I’m Nobody! Who are you? / Are you–Nobody–Too?”
She’d so identified with that poem, and when she’d learned of Emily Dickinson’s introverted, reclusive life, and of her eccentric tendency to wear only white dresses, her fondness for her deepened. She felt she understood her. She even imagined that if by some trick of time they’d been classmates, they would have been friends.
At one point in class, Lindy Tussler had raised her hand and said, “I think Emily Dickinson was a freak. Simple as that.”
“No she’s not!” said Amelia, without thinking. “She’s brilliant!”
“You two would have been a perfect couple,” said Lindy, lowering her voice. “A freaky, weirdo couple.”
Everyone within earshot laughed.
Amelia was grateful that Ms. Noggle hadn’t heard.
Now Amelia burned inside, remembering the incident. Her eyes were glittering, and she was sure her cheeks and ears were red.
Amelia turned her attention back to the book in her hands. She glanced at the poems Mrs. O’Brien had flagged. The first line of one of the poems was “The Bustle in a House.” The Post-it marking it had writing on it. In Mrs. O’Brien’s familiar, neat, petite cursive, it said Reminds me of Gordon, explains him.
Because of Mrs. O’Brien’s note, Amelia read the poem hungrily.
The Bustle in a House
The Morning after Death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon Earth–
The Sweeping up the Heart
And putting Love away
We shall not want to use again
Until Eternity.
Amelia read the poem three times. She pictured her father’s heart literally broken into tiny pieces. She pictured Mrs. O’Brien sweeping up the pieces and putting them into a jar, her hollowed-out father watching with a grave, faraway look in his eyes. She pictured the jar stashed away on some high shadowed shelf—in her father’s bedroom closet or in his study or in his office on campus.
Amelia knew her father loved her on a basic level, but maybe this poem explained his inability to express his love in an easy, natural, common way. Maybe, because of her mother’s death, he couldn’t love, really love, anyone or anything ever again.
Amelia shivered. She closed the book with a snap. She wished she hadn’t read the poem.
10 • Quiz
And, then, finally, it was Monday morning. Amelia felt steady inside as she entered the clay studio. There was a glimmer of light in her dull life.
She could see Casey in the workroom. He was busy writing in a notebook. His head was inclined, his hand and arm moved jerkily, in spurts, up and down, back and forth. Beside him, drying, stood a new Eiffel Tower. Tall. Elegant. Beautiful.
“Wow,” said Amelia, instead of a greeting. “That’s really good.”
“Well,” said Casey, waving the compliment away, “Louise helped a lot.” He flashed an off-kilter grin. “Actually, it’s more hers than mine.”
Amelia circled the sculpture, looking closer. “When did you make it?”
“Yesterday.”
“What happened to the other one?”
“I smashed it into a million pieces,” said Casey. “That was fun.”
Amelia couldn’t tell if she was jealous of the new Eiffel Tower or not. It was really good. “What are you going to work on today?” she asked.
“I’m working on this,” he replied, tipping his head toward his notebook.
“What is it?”
“I’m writing a quiz about myself for my parents to take. They’ve both been so caught up in hating each other that I feel like they don’t really know me anymore. So, I’m hoping that taking the quiz—which I’m sure they’ll both fail—will shock them into staying together. For my sake, if nothing else.” He looked up at her with his heart in his eyes.
“Maybe they know more than you think they do.”
“I doubt it. I’d even be willing to be direct and say, If you pass the quiz, go ahead and get divorced. But if you fail it, you have to stay together.”
That proposition seemed risky to Amelia, but she didn’t think his parents would go for it anyway. What adults ever agree to conditions made by kids?
“What are the questions like?” she asked.
“Question number five,” he said, reading from the notebook. “What are the two things your son is most afraid of?” He paused.
“And the answer is . . .”
“You really want to know?”
She nodded.
“The first one is obvious,” he said. “I’m afraid they actually will get divorced.”
“But if they really hate each other, maybe it would be better if they did,” said Amelia.
Casey’s answer was simple and immediate: “No.” He blinked rapidly. “Now, do you want to know what the second thing is?”
“Sure.”
“I’m afraid that something huge and awful will happen on New Year’s Eve this year. All over the world.” His voice was serious.
“You mean Y2K?”
“Yeah. Aren’t you afraid?”
“Not really.” She’d heard theories about computers—all kinds—shutting down at midnight on December 31.
“I am. It makes sense—I mean, computers won’t know how to deal with the change from nineteen ninety-nine to two thousand. Planes will fall out of the sky. Security systems and elevators will fail. Bank accounts will be frozen.”
“I never fly anywhere,” said Amelia, thinking of Florida for the first time that day, “and I don’t have any money to speak of. And—it’s only April. They—whoever they is—will figure it out by the end of the year.” She smiled and threw up her hands nonchalantly, but she could tell by the look on Casey’s face that he was deeply concerned.
“Well, I’m worried enough for both of us,” he said.
Y2K was the least of her troubles, but Amelia knew that, truthfully, there was nothing she could say to reassure him. And, then, suddenly, she felt alone. So alone. It dawned on her that if there were a quiz about her, no one would know the answers except maybe Mrs. O’Brien and possibly Natalie. She doubted that her father would do very well. No one really knows me, she thought. A hard, glittering realization. It was pathetic, but Dr. Cotton knew her better than anyone.
Then it struck her that her greatest fear was that Mrs. O’Brien would die before she, Amelia, left for college. If that happened, what would she do? How could she make it through the string of unbearable days? She shook her head as if to loosen the ugly thought and allow it to fall away. She needed to get her hands into some clay as soon as possible.
11 • A Lot
All morning, while Amelia worked on her clay sculptures, Casey worked on his quiz, except when Louise asked him to clean the sink and take out the garbage. Knowing about the quiz made Amelia feel like she had a secret, and as she rolled the clay between her hands, she also felt infinitely smarter somehow because of it.
From time to time, Casey sat sideways, away from the table, notebook on his lap, and then Amelia wondered if he was seeking a bit of privacy to write a question about her. Might she be mentioned in the quiz? The thought gave her an odd thrill and her face became hot.
Amelia formed five more rabbits that morning. Unlike the rabbits she’d made last week—squatting, alert, with upturned ears—these were lying do
wn with their ears pressed against their bodies. They were smaller than her fist and looked like chalky gray eggs at first glance, or stones.
Amelia was finding her way into a new lump of clay, letting her fingers work out a rhythm before starting another rabbit when Louise tapped her on her shoulder. “Those are lovely,” said Louise, looking carefully at the rabbits. “Subtle and beautiful. I didn’t know they were rabbits at first. That’s what makes them interesting.”
“Thank you.”
“You should make a lot of them,” said Louise. “A lot. If you make enough of them, I’d let you display them in the front window. You could have a little show.”
“Really?” Amelia’s soul seemed to inflate.
Louise nodded. “I think it could be wonderful. The whole window full of them. A lot of the same thing can look very dramatic. A lot can be very good. You might even glaze them all the same way. Think about it.”
There was nothing to think about. Yes, she wanted to shout. Yes, I will make hundreds of rabbits if necessary. Yes, I will display them in the front window.
Amelia closed her eyes for a full breath. In, out.
Forget not going to Florida. Forget her moody, remote father. Forget the end of the world.
Maybe she could be a real artist. Maybe she had a new friend who shared secrets. Maybe her life really was changing.
12 • Frosting and Lamb Chop
“Frosting,” said Amelia. “His name is Frosting.”
Casey nodded.
They were at the coffee shop, having a late lunch by the big window, inventing names and stories for people.
Frosting was kicking a stone down the sidewalk. Amelia thought he was six or seven. His tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth. His untucked, loose flannel shirt looked like a tent around him. Most distinctive was his hair—it rose up into several rigid white-blond shiny peaks. Hence, his name. The wind picked up and his shirt billowed, but his hair remained stiff, unmoving.
“I like the one-name people,” said Amelia.
“Like Feather?”
“Yeah, like Feather. And, now, Frosting.”
“Feather would eat him alive,” said Casey.
“Yep,” Amelia agreed. “She would.” She couldn’t keep from smiling. She was still glowing from Louise’s comments about her rabbit sculptures, and so the story she was concocting for Frosting was joyful. “He’s going to find a lottery ticket in the gutter and win ten million dollars, propelling his family out of poverty. And he’s super-smart. A genius. He’s going to Harvard next fall.”
Casey snorted.
Frosting crossed the street and disappeared behind an evergreen hedge.
“This one’s mine,” said Casey, tipping his head toward a spidery old woman walking uneasily with a slight limp and a thick cane. It seemed as if the wind could lift her up and carry her off. Despite her awkward movements, there was an elegance about her. Her pale moon face was framed by white curls and topped with a brown beret that matched her long coat. Her expression was placid.
The beret brought to mind an acorn. Acorn, Amelia thought. I’d name her Acorn. She tried to send the name to Casey telepathically.
It didn’t work.
“Okay,” said Casey, adjusting his shoulders, wiggling in his chair, resettling himself. “Here we have—Lamb Chop. She looks like a sweet, respectable old lady, but she’s a member of the CIA. The limp is fake. Her cane is a weapon.” His voice flickered with merriment. “She’s killed several people in active duty. She’s brutal.”
Amelia laughed. She wanted the way she felt at that very moment to last forever.
But nothing does. In seconds Lamb Chop was gone, and the sidewalk was empty.
13 • Epiphany
And then, minutes later, something happened. Something that changed Amelia’s world. Shook it up.
Casey had a funny look on his face.
“What?” said Amelia. “What is it?”
“Her,” said Casey, pointing. “See that woman?” He lifted an eyebrow, thinned his lips.
Amelia nodded. “What are you naming her?”
“I don’t know what I’m naming her . . . but this is weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“That woman.” He was staring at her, hard-eyed.
She looked perfectly ordinary to Amelia. From the side, from this angle, this distance. “What about her?”
“Well . . . you’re going to think I’m crazy . . . and I know this is going to sound strange, but I think it’s your sign. She’s your sign.” He turned to Amelia to judge her reaction, but she was watching the woman and he couldn’t see her expression. His voice became so small. “It’s like a movie.” Smaller. “She’s your mother.”
“What?” Amelia’s heart pinched and she felt a flash of anger. Their innocent naming game had crossed over to a different place. “You really are crazy.”
“No, listen. I can’t explain it exactly. And, yes, it seems impossible, but—it’s like one of those Twilight Zone episodes from the olden days. You know, when someone appears from another dimension. It’s just this feeling I have. It’s eerie.”
Casey’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes wide, shiny as glass. “I saw the woman earlier, in front of the clay studio. I think I might have seen her yesterday, too. It’s like she’s hanging around, searching for something—or someone. And look at her—she has red hair like yours and her nose is like yours, too.” He took an audible breath. “She looks like you. I mean, she does. Really. A lot.”
Did she?
With a bow of his head, Casey kept going. “It’s not that she’s your mother exactly. It’s like she’s an impression of her. A symbol. Sort of like a ghost, but she’s real.”
In the stretch of silence that followed, Amelia tucked her hands into her armpits and sharpened her eyes.
This is what she saw. The hair. Undeniably similar. The familiar nose. Better looking on a middle-aged woman. The serious way the woman walked. (That’s how I want to walk, thought Amelia.) Her distinct shape against the neighborhood scene, beneath a blue unbroken sky. The jacket. Amelia loved the woman’s jacket, open and flapping, corduroy the color of cantaloupe, with scalloped lilac trim on the sleeves and hem. Oh, how she loved the jacket. She’d never seen anything like it.
For just a second Amelia felt a separateness from every other person except the woman. And that second seemed to contain her whole life, everything that mattered. And the unfinished things inside her felt complete.
Amelia found it hard to breathe. The world was shrinking to a pinhole.
Now the woman came closer to the window. She whipped her hair into a high, loose bun, using the window as a mirror.
Now she passed right by them, glancing into the coffee shop, a mere sheet of glass separating them. Amelia didn’t speak, but with imploring eyes she asked, Do you know me? Is it me you’re looking for? Do I belong to you?
Now the woman walked out of Amelia’s direct line of sight. Out of the world.
Now there was something new in Casey’s voice when he said, “It’s really true. We’ve had a sighting. This is significant. This is the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
And now Amelia whispered, “To me.”
Perhaps, this, this, was the start of her life.
Strange things always occur in life, she reasoned. Unbelievable things were as common as common ones if you were open to them, she told herself. If you looked beneath the surface.
Miracles did happen. At least, she believed they did. They could. Wasn’t it true? There are people whose hearts stop and then beat again. People who are missing for years and then show up one day out of the blue. There are kids who fall from great heights and barely suffer a scratch. If there were six billion people on the planet, couldn’t one uncanny, irrational thing happen to one of them, to her? Couldn’t she experience something from another dimension? Couldn’t she?
“We still have to name her,” said Casey. “You should. She’s your mother. What
’s your mother’s name, anyway?”
Her mother’s name was Sabrina, but she didn’t want to say it out loud. “I’ll call her Epiphany,” said Amelia.
“Epiphany’s your mother’s name?”
“No. Epiphany is my middle name. My mother wanted to call me Epiphany because I was born on January sixth, the Feast of Epiphany.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the day the Three Kings supposedly visited Baby Jesus with their gifts. But we’re not religious and my father thought it was an odd, trendy name. But, anyway, it’s my middle name. So that’s what I’m calling the woman.”
“Your mother. That’s cool. And, hey, it’s another one-word name like Feather.”
Your mother. Was this whole thing Casey’s way to pass his time in exile at his aunt’s? To make the week more interesting? To take his mind off his parents’ problems? Was it just a game to him?
Or was something else happening? Some impossible, wonderful, improbable cosmic convergence? A glimpse into an alternative reality, a parallel universe? Through her flawed understanding of the world, could she make this—her mother—possible?
She knew she wouldn’t tell anyone. Especially her father and even Mrs. O’Brien. She didn’t want anyone explaining it, making it untrue, pointing out the absurdity of it.
“Are you ready?” asked Casey.
“Ready? For what?”
Seconds ticked past. “I think we should follow her. Come on. Let’s go find Epiphany.”
14 • The Wind
Reluctantly, Amelia set off after Casey—out the door and down the street. They went in the direction Epiphany had gone, in pursuit of the flash of her cantaloupe jacket. It was very windy now, as if something had been stirred up. My mother, Amelia thought. Epiphany. That’s what—who—had been stirred up.
The jacket was like a bright flag ahead of them.
A blast of wind rushed Amelia’s face and she gulped air. For a giddy, dizzying moment, she imagined she’d breathed in the ghostly essence of her mother. And then she felt she might faint at the thought of it. She’d lost her inner balance.
