The Magic of Melwick Orchard

by Rebecca Caprara

  Great. Just great. I returned to the locker room and took off my cleats, trading them for the polka-dot boots. The tree really had known what I might need today. Science couldn’t explain that, could it? But magic could. Suddenly the prospect of a rainy walk home felt a whole lot less dreadful.

  The bus was long gone by now, and I was positive Mom hadn’t heard the news that Coach canceled practice. I pulled an umbrella from the nearby lost and found bin. It was badly busted. When I tried to slide it open, it popped upward like a startled tulip. I opened the door and stepped out under the awning, clutching my backpack with one hand and the crooked umbrella with the other.

  Just then, a shiny red minivan pulled up to the curb. Honk, honk! The door eased open and an arm waved. Someone hollered, but the rain washed the voice away. I craned my neck to listen, squinted my eyes to get a better view. The arm waved again, followed by a long swath of chestnut hair.

  “Hurry! Get in!” Kira called out. “We’ll drive you home!”

  “I’m going to walk,” I shouted.

  The front window lowered and a kind face appeared. “Walk? More like swim, dear. You’ll drown out here.”

  “Really, it’s fine.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. We live just up the road from you.” The offer was tempting, especially now that rain was falling by the bucketful.

  “Mom’s right. Get in!” Kira said. Apparently she’d forgiven her mother’s crimes of kindness.

  “Come along, dear. We won’t take no for an answer.” Heck. They were both persistent. At least she wasn’t calling me Pookie. It could’ve been worse.

  I abandoned the umbrella and sprinted for the car. It was warm and dry inside, with plush seats and a tiny television mounted in the headrest, like a cozy living room on wheels.

  Kira clapped and squealed. “Carpool buddies!” She tried to give me a high five, but I left her hanging. High fives were a major violation of my don’t-need-friends policy.

  “Buckle up, girls. I brought some juice boxes if you’re thirsty.” Kira’s mom smiled in the rearview mirror, beaming so brightly that I had to turn away.

  “You want grape or fruit punch? They both have bendy straws. I just love bendy straws, don’t you? They’re totally silly, but also very convenient.” Kira looked cross-eyed down her own straw. “A real contradiction,” she said between sips.

  “Good word, Pookie!” her mother cooed from the front seat.

  “I know! It comes from the Latin roots contra and dicere.” Kira grinned proudly.

  Flaunting some stupid vocabulary word we’d learned in Mr. Clarke’s class was not going to impress me. Not one bit. Okay, if Junie said a word like that it would probably sound cute. Because she was six years old. And because she was Junie. Kira was neither.

  “So?” Kira asked, giving me a little nudge. “Which flavor do you want? You can have both. We have plenty.”

  Plenty. A word that sounded luxurious, and foreign. Lately, the only thing we Fitzwilkens had plenty of were problems.

  “Grape,” I said, giving in. “Thanks.” The juice hit my empty stomach, sending sugar rushing through my veins.

  Kira took a few big gulps, then dragged on her bendy straw, filling the car with a symphony of slurping. The juice box eventually surrendered to her torture and collapsed in on itself. Crushed. Just as we pulled up to my house.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said, gathering my things.

  “You’re welcome, dear.” Kira’s mom turned to look at me. “I’ve told your mother over and over, I’m happy to pick you up, whenever you need. It’s really no trouble. And I know Kira would love to spend more time with you.”

  “Carpool buddies!” Kira tried the high five again. I placed my empty juice box in her hand instead. Did that count?

  The car door slid open, friendly and smooth. Opening our station wagon’s dented doors usually required a swift kick and a couple of bad words. Like I said, we lived in opposite universes.

  “See ya later, alligator!” Kira trilled.

  “Bye,” I said, jumping out of the car. Thankfully, the rain had slowed to a light patter.

  “No, you’re supposed to say in a while, crocodile!” It was the sort of rhyming game Junie and I used to play. The memory stung like lemon juice on a paper cut.

  I couldn’t bear to answer her. When Kira waved good-bye, her long hair swung back and forth over her shoulder. I almost wished the door would shut on that ridiculous mane. Chop. Good riddance.

  “Wait!” she screeched. She scrambled out of the car and ran over to me. She didn’t seem to mind the raindrops spattering her face and clothes. “You forgot these at lunch.” She pressed the perfectly wrapped cookies into my palm.

  “Oh, right. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope you like them. I can bring you more tomorrow, if you want.”

  “Okay.” I was grateful for the cookies but eager to escape and check on my tree.

  Kira stood and stared at me, a smile plastered to her face. My own face was like a fun-house mirror, reflecting the reverse image.

  “You know, it takes sixty-two muscles to frown,” she said, squinting. “It only takes twenty-six to smile. You should try turning that frown upside down.”

  “Maybe I need the exercise,” I grumbled.

  Kira laughed. “Good one.”

  “It wasn’t a joke.”

  “Well, it was funny, so I laughed. You should try that sometime too. Along with smiling.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” The truth was, some days it felt unfair to smile when my little sister was so sick. But maybe Kira was right. I forced the corners of my mouth up the slightest bit.

  “Much better.” Kira nodded. She turned and climbed back into the car. “Bye-bye, butterfly!”

  As they left, I felt myself filling up with emotions that didn’t quite go together. It was a weird combination, like lima beans mixed with ice cream. I wanted to be seen and heard and cared about. By my family, though, not by some stranger.

  My heart started insisting that a stranger could become a friend, and a friend could become like family, if I gave her a chance. My brain rallied against the idea, crying out, What if you move again? Why suffer more? Why risk one more good-bye?

  No, I didn’t want a friend. I really didn’t. A friend would just complicate things. Plus, Kira drove me crazy. She was too perky, too loud, too everything.

  You sure about that? asked my heart. I’d nearly torched her precious locks in science class. I’d ditched her in the middle of lunch with no explanation whatsoever. And yet she still offered me a ride home. She stood with me in the rain. She made sure I had something to eat and drink. She was excited to see me. She listened when I talked. It was more than my own parents had done for me in a while. My stubborn brain couldn’t deny the fact that Kira was kind. Even when I’d been nothing but cranky in return.

  I sighed. There were lots of things in life I couldn’t change, like tumors named Willie and apple trees that refused to blossom. But I could change the way I acted toward Kira. I wasn’t ready to revoke my don’t-need-friends policy, but at the very minimum, I would try to be friendly. It was a compromise my heart and brain seemed content with, at least for the moment.

  ***

  I purposefully stepped in every puddle I could find from the driveway to the front door. My new boots splashed and dashed the water, happy for the challenge. The screen door greeted me with its typical croaky whimper, but the rest of the house was as quiet as I’d left it that morning. I stacked my books and homework on a shelf, then crouched down and unloaded my backpack of its more precious cargo, placing the sneakers and cleats along the mudroom wall. I grabbed Dad’s golf umbrella and my empty backpack. The weather was just fine for a harvest.

  Across the backyard, up the hill, into the orchard. Like pebbles at the beach, the colors of spring were more vibrant when wet. Green green. Yellow yellow.

  Then, on the ground, red red. I reached down and touched a fallen shoefruit. It slowly shriv
eled, then melted into the grass. Leaving nothing behind. Not a stem. Not a shoelace. My chest rose, then sank.

  The tree glistened, telling me in its quiet way not to give up so easily. I looked down. The rain boots were a little muddy, but still in good condition. My feet were dry and snug inside them. I kicked one foot out from under the umbrella. I wiggled it around, letting the rain drip all over the polka-dotted rubber. I pulled my foot back in and gave a few big stomps. The boots showed no signs of disintegrating. My spirits lifted.

  All around the perimeter of the tree, the remaining pods fell one by one, disappearing as they touched the ground. I stood beneath the black halo of the umbrella. There was nothing I could do.

  Except eat cookies and watch. I pulled the wax-paper package from my pocket and inspected one of Kira’s cookies. Oatmeal, chunks of chocolate, maybe a roasted almond or two. The first bite: crispy outside, chewy inside. Buttery sweet. As close to perfecterrific as a cookie could get.

  Which is why it was really hard—near impossible—not to eat every last bite.

  But I didn’t.

  I saved one cookie.

  This time, it wasn’t the squirrel that made me do it. It was the thought of our empty refrigerator and another bowl of stale cereal. I plunged my hands into the ground. It was gloopy and squishy—the ideal consistency for Junie’s famous mud soufflé. But I was hoping for something much more appetizing.

  Maybe it was just the patter of raindrops, but I swear the leaves quivered excitedly as I placed that scrumptious cookie into the hole in the ground. I covered it up and gave the mud a little pat. I wondered if the twisting bluish roots were sending some sort of signal up into the tree.

  Heck. If it worked for the shoes, it was worth a shot with the cookies.

  Chapter 7

  I awoke that night to the sound of voices.

  “Darn it, Nel. I’m out there breaking my back and you go spend half a week’s paycheck in one afternoon? On shoes? What were you thinking?”

  “I told you, I didn’t buy them,” Mom said.

  My parents were fighting. Because of me. I lay in bed, my eyes like the puddles in our driveway. Filling up. Spilling over.

  “The cleats alone must have cost a fortune. Where could they have come from?” Dad asked.

  “Isabel?”

  I sat up straight. The sound of my name zapped electric.

  “You think she stole them?”

  I almost got out of bed and marched into their room. I would tell them the truth about the squirrel and the tree. Everything. Crazy as it might sound. But. Crazy. If I told the truth, they’d probably haul me off to the hospital to get my head checked. Another medical bill was the last thing we needed. So I stayed in bed.

  “Isa? Stealing? I can’t imagine her doing that,” Mom said.

  “She sure as heck didn’t buy them. The poor kid didn’t even have lunch money today.”

  “What? Oh no, Nathan.”

  “I feel terrible. I completely forgot. I didn’t realize until this afternoon. I just have so much on my mind.” His words were shaky.

  “We all do. But it’ll get better.” There was a long pause. “At least that’s what everyone keeps saying.”

  “I think I know where the shoes came from.” Dad’s voice rose up, mad. “Lewis.”

  “Your brother? Why would he do that?”

  “Because I refused his pity money.”

  “He offered? Money?” There was a little hope on the tip of Mom’s tongue. She couldn’t hide it. I’d seen the pile of bills on the kitchen counter. It grew almost as fast as the chance seedling.

  “He always offers,” Dad said. “My answer is always the same.”

  “He’s only trying to help. It’s generous.”

  “No, it’s insulting. We can take care of our own family, Nel.” I didn’t like hearing my dad talk that way. Like the weight of the world rested on their shoulders alone.

  Their voices faded away. Part of me wanted to press my ear to the wall and keep listening; the other part was scared to hear more. The wind blew outside my window and the trees in the orchard whispered. Husha, hush. As if they were trying to soothe me.

  I tossed and turned, glancing at the clock beside my bed every few minutes, trying not to count the hours until dawn.

  ***

  When sleep finally came, it brought dreams of a sprawling orchard. Instead of green leaves and juicy fruit, the trees in this orchard sprouted envelopes. I picked one after another, hoping to find nice things inside, like a party invitation, a report card with straight A’s, or a drawing from Junie. But each envelope contained a sheet of paper covered with bright red numbers, angry words, and a million exclamation points. As soon as I tore one bill up, two more grew in its place. Instead of whispering Husha, hush, these creepy trees snarled, Hurry, hurry, hurry!

  Thankfully, the nightmare vanished when I opened my eyes the next morning. The eavesdropper’s guilt was harder to shake. It followed me out of bed and into the bathroom. A cold splash of water to the face couldn’t wash it away. Down the stairs, it clung to my ankles, heavy and awkward. I couldn’t unhear the things I heard last night. The tone of Dad’s voice haunted me most. I had hoped to see him for a few minutes before he left for work. Just enough time for a quick hug. But I had no such luck. His car rumbled away as I entered the kitchen.

  The discovery of a jar of raspberry jam and a loaf of bread on the counter helped improve my crummy mood a little. A gallon of milk, sticks of sweet cream butter, and a dozen fresh eggs in the fridge helped some more. Even if I had to cook them myself.

  Butter in skillet, egg in butter, breakfast in stomach.

  I hummed, the way Mom used to, as I spread warm toast with a layer of jam almost an inch thick. I traced the shape of a heart with the knife before putting another slice of toast on top. You couldn’t see it, but the love was in there. And sometimes you can’t see the most important stuff.

  I cut the sandwich down the middle. I wrapped one half in tinfoil and put it in the fridge. For Dad, for whenever he came home next. I placed the other on a plate, for Mom. I made a second identical sandwich, wrapped it, and placed it inside my backpack. If I could’ve drawn a heart in Junie’s hospital mush, I would’ve done that too.

  I went back upstairs, careful not to trip or spill. “Good morning,” I said as I placed a cup of milk and the half-heart jam sandwich on my mother’s bedside table.

  She looked up, bleary-eyed. “That’s nice of you, Isa.”

  I sat on the edge of her bed, tracing the lines of color running through her blanket. It used to be white with red stripes, but several trips through the wash had turned it various shades of pink. Now rows of rosy thread were stitched across the hills and valleys of my mother’s body, the way our orchard might have looked in blossom. Before the trees decided to give up growing apples, that is.

  I waited, hoping Mom would say more. Hoping she hadn’t given up yet.

  I missed the way she used to flit around the house in the morning, getting everyone prepared for the day. Scrambling eggs, packing lunches, inspecting backpacks for finished homework. Each completed task was accompanied by a kiss to the forehead, like a checkmark on a to-do list. Then she’d straighten Dad’s tie, which always seemed to be askew. Our morning routine had been the same, no matter how many times we moved. There was comfort in that sameness. Now every day was a guessing game.

  I cleared my throat. “Can you take me to see Junie tonight?”

  “We’ll see,” she said quietly.

  Why did grown-ups always say stuff like that? Every kid on earth knows we’ll see means no. A delayed no, but a no nonetheless.

  “Why?” I said, on the brink of whining.

  “Junie’s not feeling well.”

  “Um, newsflash: I know. That’s why she’s in the hospital. If she felt good, she wouldn’t be there. She’d be home with us. Where she belongs.” I planted my hands on my hips. “So, when can I go?”

  “Maybe this weekend.”


  “Maybe? What do you mean, maybe? She’s probably lonely all by herself.” Was I really talking about Junie, or myself?

  Mom sat up. “She’s not by herself, Isabel. I spend all day with her. Your father visits her after work. There are nurses and doctors caring for her 24/7. Plus, she’s made some friends.”

  I felt a stab of pain, a fear of being replaced.

  “What do you want us to do?” Mom continued. “We can’t take you out of school. You need to maintain your routine and a sense of normalcy. That’s what the counselors suggested, and Dad and I agree.”

  “Well, my routine stinks,” I snapped. “And I feel about as normal as a fish with three heads.”

  “Isabel.”

  I peeked at my watch. “I haven’t seen Junie in five days, four hours, and twenty-eight minutes. In sister-time that’s basically eternity. I have to see her, Mom.”

  My mother sucked in her breath. I could tell she was torn.

  “It’s important,” I pleaded. “She has to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That I haven’t forgotten about her!”

  “Don’t be dramatic, Isabel. Of course she knows that. She knows you’ll always be there for her.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “How can I possibly be there for her, when I’m here and she’s there?!” My lower lip began to wobble. “What if she forgets about me, Mom?” I turned my back to her and buried my face in the blankets.

  “That’s not possible, Isa. She talks about you all the time.” Mom placed a hand on my shoulder. Her touch was such a surprise that I nearly jumped. “We’re not trying to keep you apart.” She started rubbing my back in slow circles. I melted into her touch. “We would never, ever do that. I hate that she can’t be home with us right now. But Junie’s situation is complicated. It’s safer for her to stay at the hospital for the moment, where they can give her constant attention, in case . . .”