“And we didn’t even need a hatchet.” Kat unbuckled her seat belt and turned sideways, looking at Miranda. Her hair was loose, calm around her shoulders. Her capelette had unraveled during the drive and so she shed it, looking small in an oversized T-shirt and shorts. Her nibbled nails were their natural color, the blue polish all chewed or chipped away.
But in the fading sunset, Miranda saw a sparkle on Kat’s cheek, the glitter from some old swipe of blush or gaudy eye shadow that the forest hadn’t wiped clean.
Or perhaps it was like Miranda’s hair, still golden, even as they sat outside of their very normal, very moss-less house. Perhaps the sparkle was proof.
“What do you say we unpack,” Kat said, “and then order a pizza?”
“Perfect.” Miranda swung out of the Critter Mobile and stopped cold.
There was an unfamiliar car parked on the street, and on their porch, among the gnomes, her grandmother stood, her expression unreadable.
It was an odd thing, Miranda thought, how you could look at one face and see many different people.
This woman was her Grandma Hai, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth entirely her own — earned, no doubt, by the exhausting, stressful years of raising a child and then losing her. The stress of choices sweeping them both to opposite sides of the river. The stress of the empty e-mail inbox, the stress of the phone that never rings. The stress of having to explain over and over to people, “Yes, I have a daughter; no, we don’t speak.”
But Miranda also saw her mother’s features on that face, and as she studied her grandmother, a feature or two of her own reflected back.
Three generations in one solemn, scared face.
“Miranda,” she said with a definitiveness that was the opposite of Kat’s flighty-sparrow voice.
Kat came around the Critter Mobile cautiously, like she was approaching a wild animal. “Mom? What are you doing here?”
“Where have you been?” Grandma Hai said. “Your daughter calls Thursday night, tells me you need help. Then I call and call and call, for three days, with no answer! So you’re alive — I’m glad to see it.” She turned back to her car.
“Wait!” Kat ran forward, blocking her mother’s door. “You — you were worried about us?”
“Of course I was worried!” Grandma Hai bit her lip. “Katerina, I — I want . . .”
Part of Miranda wanted to slice through the tension, barge in and save her mother, save her grandmother, save all of them. But it was not her place. Not her job to fix this. They needed to do it on their own.
Kat made a sound that was like a little kid laughing and a choking sob, all at once. “Mom,” she cried, “I’m so sorry.” She hugged Grandma Hai, and Grandma Hai hugged her back, and the two of them stood there, entwined, while Miranda watched.
Across the street, the lights were on at Emma’s house. A light in Emma’s bedroom.
“I’ll be right back,” Miranda said.
And she crossed the street like it was a whitewater river cutting through a mountain, and the only way to safety was barreling through to the other side.
She knocked on the door and put her hands to her side. In the twilight, the bay window was like a mirror — would Emma recognize her with her new golden hair?
Miranda stared harder at her reflection in the window, at the way her eyes seemed brighter — almost as if there was a star or two in there, gleaming against the darkness.
Did she even recognize herself?
What if, what if, what if?
Enough, she thought. For now, she could balance here, on this edge of uncertainty, and she could live among the wonders and the potentials and the what-ifs.
Because what if you never stopped wondering?
What if instead of saying “I know,” you learned to ask questions?
What if instead of closing doors, you opened them?
What if you decided to believe?
The deadbolt sounded, and Miranda’s heart beat staccato. But when the door opened, Emma was smiling. “Hi,” she said, surprised.
A tentacle.
“Hi.”
And just like that, Miranda leaped.
What if?
My sincerest, warmest thanks to everyone who helped me write, edit, and produce this book.
A thank-you to my early readers, my brainstormers, and my cheerleaders, among them Melanie Conklin, for always reminding me I can do anything I want; Julie Falatko, for being so generous with your energy and time, always; Heidi Heilig, for your patience and your optimism; and Claire Legrand, for being there every single day and holding my hand when necessary. Your insights and words of encouragement pushed me through the seemingly impossible task of writing and rewriting this book, and I am so grateful for each one of you. We have the coolest jobs.
A massive thank-you to those who helped me research this project’s setting, particularly my brother. And thank you to the brilliant proofreaders at Candlewick, who made sure every detail of this weird little book was just right.
Thank you so very much to my shimmering publicist, Jamie Tan, for making me look good; my cover designer, Matt Roeser, for making my book look good; and all the others at my wonderful publisher. I am so lucky to work with all of you.
To my agent, Sarah: Five years now we’ve been working together, and I have learned so much from you. Thank you for your wisdom, your guidance, and your ever calm, ever straightforward ways.
To my editor, Kaylan: How did we survive this? How did we burn this down and rebuild it and live to tell the tale? I will never get over it, and I will never forget your steadfastness, your fortitude, and your gumption. And you were right. You know that, right You were so, so right. I want to write books with you forever. Let’s make a million more (on a realistic, responsible time frame).
This book was born from a hodgepodge of strange ingredients, and yet without a single one of them, it would cease to be what it is now. And so thank you, Pixar’s Brave, Snow Patrol’s A Hundred Million Suns, Joel McNeely’s score to the Tinkerbell movies, and Tibble Fork Reservoir in American Fork Canyon.
Thank you to my family — my mother in particular, who encouraged me and my odd little fairies and taught me how to be a parent. Thank you to my siblings — I am so happy we had one another for everything that’s happened in the last three years. Thank you to my husband for his patronage and his adoration, and to my daughters, Finley and Clementine — there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I love you both a giant hairy Bigfoot.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2018 by Lindsay Eagar
Cover images: copyright © 2018 by Beastfromeast/Getty Images (watercolor); Library of Congress, Geography and Map Division (national park map)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2018
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number pending
Candlewick Press
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Somerville, Massachusetts 02144
visit us at www.candlewick.com
The Bigfoot Files Page 25
