An unusual scent swirled in the breeze. I inhaled. A bizarre combination filled my nostrils: sawdust from Dad’s workshop, cinnamon from Mom’s sticky bun recipe, the leather of my softball glove, Junie’s strawberry chewing gum. All mixed together, the result should’ve been gross. But somehow it wasn’t. It was like the perfume of a happy memory, if such a thing existed. And it seemed to be coming from the sapling.
I gently touched one of the wrinkled leaves. It unfolded in my palm. The smell grew stronger. When I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, memories flickered behind my eyelids, like a movie reel of the Fitzwilken family’s greatest hits. For a split second, I forgot about my sore feet, my invisibility dilemma, my sick sister. My whole body fizzed with delight. We were building the dollhouse in the workshop. Eating cotton candy and riding the Ferris wheel at a fair. Baking with Mom in the kitchen. Feeding swans in the park. Blowing pink gum bubbles as big as our faces. Playing catch in the backyard.
I opened my eyes and shook my head. As soon as the happiness wore off, pain set in. It left me wondering if we’d ever do those things again, together as a family. I quickly pushed the memories away.
The squirrel studied my face. His nose twitched.
“What?” I said, letting go of the leaf.
He lifted his tiny, furry shoulders, as if to say, How should I know? Then he looked at my hand. I followed his eyes.
My palm shimmered with a silvery, sticky sheen. Apparently the dew coating the tree wasn’t dew at all. It was some sort of sap. I tried to wipe it off on my pants, but it wouldn’t budge. I crouched and rubbed my palm vigorously on the grass, the way Junie did whenever we ran out of napkins at a picnic. When my hand accidentally brushed the sapling’s thin trunk, a tiny shock traveled through me, similar to the harmless jolts of static electricity I felt when I shuffled around our living room carpet in my fleecy socks. Except this feeling lasted longer. By the time I raised my hand, the glittery sap had disappeared.
“Weird,” I muttered, more to myself than to the squirrel.
But the sapling seemed to think I was speaking to it. It bent and swayed, then dropped a single leaf by my bare feet. Before I could pick it up, the leaf disintegrated into the grass. I blinked and it was gone.
“Did you see that?” I asked the squirrel. Now I felt like the confused creature. “That’s definitely not something a normal tree or leaf would do.”
The squirrel inspected the patch of grass, equally perplexed. We walked in a slow circle around the sapling, looking at it from all angles. The trunk straightened up. The leaves fluttered proudly, almost like that tree was showing off and enjoying the attention.
“There’s got to be a scientific explanation for whatever’s going on here, right? Do you think . . .” I chewed my lip. “Maybe this could be a chance seedling?”
The squirrel’s tail shot up, from a curling question mark to an excited exclamation point.
“You really think so?” So much for my great wisdom. Who was I kidding? I was just a barefoot fool, talking to a bushy-tailed rodent.
Swish, swish, went the squirrel’s tail. His glassy black eyes twinkled. Then he sprang toward the base of the sapling. He started to dig right below the spot where the leaf had landed.
“The leaf is gone,” I said. “And I told you, you won’t find an acorn under there either. It’s already sprouted.”
He kept digging. His paws worked quickly, flinging dirt in my direction.
“Cut that out. You’re making a mess.”
But the squirrel was determined. He dug and dug. The sapling trembled.
“Be careful not to hurt its roots!” I said, feeling strangely protective of that weird tree, even though it was basically a glorified stick.
After a few minutes, the squirrel stood up on his haunches and inspected his work. The hole was half a foot deep and wide enough to store an entire lunch box full of acorns. A few disoriented earthworms wriggled around at the bottom, wondering who turned on the lights. Some of the sapling’s roots were exposed, but thankfully they didn’t appear to be injured. Oddly, the roots weren’t brown or green, or any of the colors I expected them to be. Even caked with dirt, the roots were a very faint shade of blue.
“Look!” I pointed to the roots. The squirrel wasn’t interested. He just kept looking past me, his tail twitching. He eyed the sneakers I’d tossed aside earlier. Then me. Then the hole. Ahem.
“What exactly do you want me to do? Put my sneakers in there?”
He nodded.
“Why?” It was a question I asked a lot lately, but it rarely came with an answer. So I changed my question. “Why not?” The sneakers were pretty useless at this point. Maybe they did deserve a proper burial. I picked them up and placed them in the hole. As soon as I did, the roots brightened ever so slightly. It was very strange, but then again, so was hanging out with a squirrel.
“I feel like I should say something.” I cleared my throat. The squirrel held his tail in his hands, out of respect. “May your souls . . . and soles . . . rest in peace.”
As I tossed a handful of dirt into the hole, I spotted the tiny blue root tendrils snaking down toward the sneakers. One wove through the laces, another curled around the heel. Before I could investigate further, the squirrel jumped in front of me. His hind legs kicked the rest of the dirt back into the hole, completely covering the sneakers and twisting roots.
When he was finished, he moved aside and flashed another squirrely smile. With one last tail swish, he scurried away, disappearing through the orchard. I patted the ground with my palm, being careful not to disturb the sapling. Our work was done. And now my parents would have no choice but to buy me a new pair of sneakers.
Chapter 2
Dusk was pouring through the windows by the time I got home. I rubbed my grubby feet on the mat and started switching on lights, room by room. The gloom retreated, hovering in inky pools at the windowsills.
“Mom?”
No answer. I was disappointed, but not surprised. Recently she’d become MIA—Mother Increasingly Absent. At least when it came to mothering me.
I went to the kitchen. No supper simmered on the stove. No music played on the radio. No one hummed to a tune. A smashed teacup lay on the floor like a clue from a crime scene.
“Mom!” I shouted, breaking the quiet into a million pieces. Still no answer. I mopped up the cold tea and swept the shards of china into the dustpan. I climbed the stairs, flicking on more lights as I went.
I stood in the open doorway of my parents’ bedroom, feeling like a cardboard cutout of a girl. Like one of Junie’s paper dolls come to life.
“It’s dinnertime,” I said flatly.
The heap of blankets that was my mother spoke quietly. “Just fix some leftovers tonight, sweetheart.” She exhaled, as if that handful of words was hard work. Then she rolled over, without even sitting up to look at me. Most mothers would want at least a quick visual check to make sure their firstborn hadn’t decided to cover her body in tattoos or dye her hair purple since breakfast. Not mine. She pulled a pillow over her head.
If today was like yesterday, or the days before, I knew she’d been at the hospital for hours, talking to doctors, nurses, counselors. I knew she’d brought a gigantic stack of library books to read to Junie, to distract my sister from the medicines that were making her sick and somehow better at the same time. I knew she’d probably called my dad during his lunch break to give him the daily report on Junie’s condition. My mother used her energy all day, for everyone else. By the time the sun went down, she had nothing left for me.
“Mom?”
“Fix . . . leftovers . . .” she said, even softer this time.
“Why? Are they broken?” I thought I might be able to cheer her up with something clever.
“Hmm?” she mumbled from beneath the pillow.
“I can’t fix leftovers, Mom. Because they went the way of the dinosaurs. They’re extinct.” I huffed. “Get it?”
The blankets made a confused rust
le.
“You have to actually cook for there to be leftovers,” I said a little louder.
She groaned, as if my words were tiny stinging nettles.
I hadn’t meant to hurt her; I was just stating the truth. I tried a different approach, making sure my words didn’t have any prickly edges. “I found something in the clearing today.”
Before Junie got sick, my sister and I loved exploring outside. We quickly learned that the orchard offered a seemingly endless supply of treasures, if we looked carefully. We spent hours collecting chips of bark, colorful leaves, flakes of lichen, and smooth pebbles. Then we’d come home and present our findings to Mom. She would ooh and aah, then help us arrange everything in an old wooden box that we called our Cabinet of Curiosities. Now it was gathering dust in my room. It didn’t feel right to play with it without Junie.
“Did you hear me?” I asked. “I found something. It won’t fit in our Cabinet of Curiosities, but it’s definitely curious . . .”
“Oh?” she said wearily.
“Don’t worry, it’s not made of mud,” I added, still hoping to brighten her mood. Along with being a master treasure-finder, Junie was an expert mud chef. She liked to test different recipes during our afternoon adventures, blending the slimiest ingredients she could find. Mud cakes and mud soufflé were her specialties. One day, against my advice, she delivered a dozen extra gooey mud cakes right to the kitchen table. Even though Mom wanted to encourage Junie’s culinary interests, she insisted that all mud creations stay outside from then on.
Lately, when Junie came home from the hospital between treatments, she was too nauseated or tired to play outside. Plus, the doctors said digging around in the dirt wasn’t safe because bacteria could cause an infection that Junie might not be able to fight.
“I know they were awful gross, but I sort of miss those mud cakes,” I said. “Spring is the best season for mud-making. All that thawed snow, plus April showers . . .”
“Not now, Isa.” Mom pressed the pillow tighter over her ears. “My head, it’s pounding.”
“My stomach, it’s rumbling. Together we could have a pretty sweet band. Rumble, grumble! Boom, bam!” I drummed my hands against my belly.
“Please, baby. I need some quiet. I just . . .” Her voice faded away.
My hands dropped to my sides. “Fine. Is anyone around here going to make dinner? When’s Dad coming home?”
One thing Mom disliked more than mud on the kitchen table was whining. She sat up and reached for the lamp next to her bed, pulling the cord with a fierce yank. I jumped back. Her wavy auburn hair wasn’t shiny or smooth; it was tangled and wild, piled on top of her head like one of those nests the birds in the orchard were building. Her eyes were the same olive-green color as Junie’s, but they didn’t have their usual gleam and they were ringed in red. She blinked furiously, as if the light were too bright or as if she were fighting back tears. Or maybe both.
“He’s working, Isabel. We’re doing the best we can.” She cinched her bathrobe tightly around her waist and stared at me. “Your father’s completely fried. We all are.”
I tried to muster up some words, but they all sounded too cruel to say out loud. Even though I was mad, I didn’t want to make Mom’s eyes redder or her face puffier. I knew why Dad had to work so hard, and why Mom spent so much time at the hospital. I knew I needed to hang in there and be a good girl. But knowing something in your head and feeling it in your heart are two very different things. Sometimes I think grown-ups forget how hard that can be.
I turned on my heels and marched down the stairs, intentionally stepping on all the creakiest boards, letting them do the whining for me.
I pulled a box of cereal from the kitchen cupboard. CrunchyFunPuffs! Again. Oh joy. What fun. I swung the fridge door open, then kicked it shut. Empty.
A hollowness formed in my gut where hunger mixed with anger. What would Junie call that? Hanger? I sat alone at the table and shoveled milkless spoonfuls of cereal into my mouth. I wondered what my sister was eating for dinner. It was probably hospital mush, but I hoped it was cupcakes. That would make her happy. I pushed my bowl aside and grabbed the telephone. I’d ask her myself. There was no one to stop me. I punched the numbers and listened to the bleating ring tone.
“Delorna Regional Hospital. How may I direct your call?”
Mom and Dad said we were so lucky that Delorna Regional had a special cancer center just for kids. If there hadn’t been a good hospital nearby, we might’ve had to move again.
“Um, the Children’s Care Unit, please.” I cleared my throat. “Oncology,” I added, which did not mean the study of uncles, as Junie had originally thought. “Room 612.” Easy to remember. Our ages: six for Junie, twelve for me.
“One moment please.”
Soft music warbled. I couldn’t wait to hear Junie’s voice. She’d love my story about the squirrel and the sapling. She’d probably even be jealous of my dinner. The word CrunchyFunPuffs! alone would trigger a giggle meltdown.
“Hello?” An unfamiliar voice. Definitely not Junie.
“Oh. Hi. I’d like to speak with . . . Penelope Hucklesby Fitzwilken, Jr.” I don’t know why I said her full name. It sounded too fancy, too serious, too everything. Junie was so small that even her nickname needed a nickname: Junie, short for Junior, short for, well, that silly oversize name of hers.
“She’s not available right now. Can I take a message?”
“Not available? What does that mean?”
“I’m sorry, may I ask who’s calling?”
“I’m her sister. Is she all right?”
A long pause. “I’m really not at liberty to say.” The voice was cold and formal. I bet it belonged to someone with a very long name. “We have strict patient confidentiality policies. I could connect you with one of our supervisors.”
Missing Junie carved an emptiness inside me that was far worse than hanger. As I hung up the phone, I felt like it might swallow me whole.
Chapter 3
Back in November, when the weather began to snap with cold, Junie and I went to play in the orchard. Mom worried we’d catch a chill. She insisted we wear our puffy coats, plus hats and thick mittens. She even wrapped scarves around our necks, the itchy ones in hideous colors that Aunt Sheila knitted for us each year.
As soon as we got to the clearing, we flung those scarves off. Junie climbed onto the swing. I pushed her while she hooted and hollered, her breath leaving little steamy clouds suspended in the crisp air.
“Junie-to-the-moonie!” she sang, soaring higher. Too high. She couldn’t grip the ropes with those thick mittens. Before I realized what was happening, she tumbled off the swing, landing like a sack of potatoes in the frosty grass.
“Junie!” I screamed, rushing to her.
After the world’s longest three seconds, her eyes opened. “Did you see me, Isa?” she rasped. “Did you see me fly? Wasn’t I awesomesauce?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. She was fine. Awesomesauce, even. But when she stood up a few minutes later, she moaned and grabbed her stomach. I carried her all the way home. By the time we got to the front porch, I was sweating buckets and my arm muscles burned worse than if I’d pitched five innings straight.
After that, everything happened quickly. A visit to the pediatrician turned into a trip to the emergency room. I cried in the car all the way to the hospital, even though I wasn’t the one who had fallen. I cried because I thought I’d broken my little sister.
After tests and scans and meetings with a whole team of specialists, we learned that the tumble from the swing hadn’t harmed Junie, but it did reveal a bigger issue. The doctors called the fall a blessing in disguise. I called it the worstible afternoon of my life.
For weeks leading up to that day, my parents and I assumed the bulge in my sister’s middle was the result of too many sweets. Junie even called it her dessert belly. At dinner, when her regular belly was too full to eat another vegetable, her dessert belly always had room to spare
. Imagine our shock when the tall man with bushy eyebrows named Dr. Ebbens told us the bulge was actually a tumor attached to Junie’s kidney.
At first, I thought finding a tumor was like discovering an unwanted raisin in a chocolate chip cookie: something that didn’t belong, but could be plucked out pretty easily. I was wrong. It was a lot more complicated.
“Wilms tumor,” Dr. Ebbens explained. “Also called nephroblastoma, is the most common form of kidney cancer in children. With prompt and aggressive treatment, it’s successfully treated in the majority of our patients.” Then he began rattling off a bunch of important-sounding medical terms, but I couldn’t get past the word cancer. It knocked the wind straight out of me.
My eyes darted over to Junie. She didn’t seem fazed. I don’t think she understood what it all meant. Frankly, neither did I. But I knew enough to know it wasn’t good. As the doctor continued talking, Mom’s face crumpled and Dad’s shoulders rolled forward. Everyone looked ready to cry. Except Junie. Like the eye of a storm, she was calm while the world roared around her.
Then she interrupted the grown-ups. “Excuse me? Could we call him Willie instead?” She patted her stomach. “Wilmer Nephew Blast-o-Rama sounds too fancy.”
It was such a Junie thing to do: give a tumor a nickname and find a way to make everyone laugh when life was teetering toward a place almost too scary to bear.
***
A few days after the diagnosis, I asked my parents what I could do to help. I was the big sister, but I felt small. Powerless and confused and unprepared for everything that was happening. I needed something, anything, to keep me from shattering into pieces.
My parents stared at me with wide, confused eyes, as if I were speaking an alien language. They’d been so focused on Junie, I think they temporarily forgot they had two daughters. That’s when I started becoming invisible.
My lower lip began doing this annoying wobbly thing. I bit it, hard, just to make it stop. “Junie’s job is to get better,” I said. “That’s pretty obvious. But what’s mine?”
The Magic of Melwick Orchard Page 2
