The Magic of Melwick Orchard

by Rebecca Caprara

  “Good one, Junebug. Me too. Most definitely. I find caffeine helps.” He smiled at Junie. “For grown-ups, that is.”

  “Speaking of which . . .” Mom yawned. “I wonder if the nurses could hook us up with a coffee IV?”

  “Doubtful. But let’s go check the cafeteria,” Dad said. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I pulled a chair close to Junie’s bed.

  “How’s the tree?” she asked, her voice weak but eager.

  I told her about sleeping in the nest made from branches.

  “When I get the sleepy medicine before my surgery, I’m going to pretend I’m falling asleep in a giant nest like that. It sounds perfecterrific.” She hugged her stuffed rabbit and rested her bald head on a pillow. “How’s Rapunzel?” she asked.

  Her question hit me like a punch to the stomach. I told Junie how I’d been a major grouch and wrongly accused Kira. “I feel awful,” I said. “I don’t know what to do.” I slumped down into the chair.

  “Just say you’re sorry, Isa.” She poked me in the ribs. “Easy peasy, allergy sneezy.”

  I sat up and gave her a peck on the cheek. “What would I do without you?”

  It was an impossible question. I didn’t dare think about the answer.

  ***

  When we returned to Bridgebury that evening, I asked Dad to drop me at Kira’s house for a few minutes, making up a story about our science project. I could’ve easily called her on the phone, but I felt like I needed to apologize in person. Dad said he’d wait in the car until I was done, because he didn’t want me wandering home through the orchard in the dark. I wondered what he’d say if he knew I’d done just that last night.

  I tapped the brass doorknocker.

  “Isabel! Please come in.” Mrs. Ritter greeted me pleasantly. Which I hadn’t expected. I was prepared to take a well-deserved scolding for treating her daughter so terribly. “How’s Junie?”

  “She’s better,” I said. The words were a relief, like aloe on a bad sunburn.

  “I’m so pleased to hear that.” She led me down the hall. “Can I get you something to eat?”

  “No, thanks. I just need to talk to Kira.”

  “She’ll appreciate your visit. She’s been feeling a little down. That pollen is driving her crazy. And I think she’s a bit self-conscious too.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m trying to be supportive. She’s beautiful no matter what.” I had no clue what Mrs. Ritter was talking about. “We’ll all get used to it soon enough. I know seeing you will cheer her up.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that.

  “Go ahead, dear.” She gestured toward the stairs. “She’s in her room.”

  The smell of pot roast drifted through the house as I climbed the stairs. The carpets were soft, the lights bright. How could I be filled with so much dread in such a cozy, inviting place?

  The second door on the left was open. I peered inside Kira’s room. A boy in a baseball hat was sitting at the desk, scribbling away on a piece of paper. He turned when he heard my footsteps.

  He wasn’t a boy at all.

  He was Kira. Her long hair must’ve been tucked under the hat.

  I stepped into the room, trying to work up the nerve to apologize for being such a rotten friend. “What are you doing? Homework?” I said sheepishly, as if that was some great icebreaker.

  “No. I’m writing a letter to my dad.”

  “How was your phone call the other day?”

  She put down the pencil and pushed her chair back. “He never called. So I’m back to writing old-fashioned letters.”

  “Oh. That stinks.” I wished I could think of something better to say. “You send him something every week, right?”

  “So you were listening.” Her tone had a slight edge.

  “Of course I was.”

  “I do it so he won’t forget about me.”

  If only I had some golden nugget of advice to give to her. Something brilliant and comforting. But the truth was, I was still struggling with many of the same feelings about my own family. “Does he send you anything back?”

  “Other than the occasional postcard? Not really.” She let out a long, disappointed sigh. “Like you said, it stinks.”

  I walked over to her desk.

  “And you?” Kira said, swiveling around in her chair to face me. “When you move, will you forget about me too?”

  My mouth hung open. “Move?”

  “That’s why you came, right? To say good-bye?” she said crisply.

  “First of all, I despise good-byes. Second of all, I don’t know what the heck you’re talking about. I’m not moving anywhere.”

  She stared at me. “Oh.” Her eyes dropped. “I thought I overheard my mom talking to someone on the phone about selling the Melwick place. I must’ve misunderstood.”

  I really, really hoped it was a misunderstanding, and nothing more. Moving was the absolute last thing us Fitzwilkens should be doing. We had enough on our plates already. “I didn’t come to say good-bye. I came to say . . .” I took a deep breath. “I came to say I’m sorry. Kira, I feel crumbuckets. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” Her eyebrows lifted up. “I was just really scared. I still am, actually. But it wasn’t fair of me to take it out on you. I know you didn’t make Junie sick.”

  Kira fidgeted with her baseball hat. “Thanks for saying that. I understand, sort of.” She looked at me. “I care about you, Isa. And your sister, even though I only met her once.”

  “I care about you too.”

  “When Junie got that fever yesterday, I was afraid maybe I had accidentally done something terrible. And I wanted to fix it, or at least make it better somehow.” She pulled the hat off her head and set it on her desk. I waited for her long chestnut locks to tumble down over her shoulders. They didn’t.

  “Whoa!” I said, shocked. Her hair was clipped to a blunt bob.

  “That bad, huh?” She blushed and reached for the hat.

  “No! Don’t cover it up,” I said. “It looks really nice. Just different.”

  She shrugged, tugging self-consciously at a few short pieces by her ears. “You think so?”

  “I do. I mean it.”

  “I’m still getting used to it. Like I said, I wanted—”

  “Wait,” I interrupted, “is that why you cut your hair? For Junie?”

  “Um, not entirely. I really did it out of necessity. If I was going to continue to be your lab buddy, that long ponytail had to go. Major fire hazard.” I was surprised to hear the sound of my own laughter, and hers too. “Besides,” she said, “I’ve been growing it because my dad liked it that way. After he flaked out on our call again, I thought, why am I holding onto this annoyingly long hair for someone else? So I chopped it off.” She ran her fingers through it, a little more confidently than before.

  I remembered a chapter on pruning from that book Ms. Perdilla gave me. “According to the orchard book, you have to let go of old things for new things to grow.”

  “I believe that,” Kira said, a slight twinkle in her eye. “You know, I cut it myself. Which might not have been the best idea, but I was thinking about your sister and . . .”

  “Kira, please tell me you didn’t plant your hair under the tree hoping to grow Junie a wig or something?”

  “No! Although that’s an interesting idea. I did find a place where I can donate it. They make wigs for sick kids. I’m going to send it to them the next time I go to the post office.”

  “Oh. That’s really nice of you. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I wanted to,” she said. “And you know what? I feel better now. I really do.” She shook her head from side to side, like an actress in a shampoo commercial.

  “You might need a new nickname though. Rapunzel doesn’t quite fit anymore.” I reached out and gave a playful tug to her short hair. “This style suits you. It’s perfecterrific.”

  “Prettiful?” she asked.

  “Posolutely.”

  Chapter 28


  Over the next two weeks, I waited for my sister to get better. I waited for the tree to bloom. I waited for Coach Naron to announce the starting lineup. Minutes and hours blurred, as if someone ran globs of finger paint across Junie’s handmade calendar, smearing the wobbly lines between days until time became one grayish-brown smudge.

  Whenever Junie and I were alone together in the hospital, I whispered stories about the orchard to her. They had a healing quality, lifting her spirits, bringing color to her pale cheeks. She improved more and more, until finally the doctors declared her strong enough for surgery. It was a weird thing to celebrate, but we were all relieved to say good-bye to that jerk Henry.

  ***

  The day before her operation, I came home after softball practice to find both of my parents pacing the floor.

  “Please don’t be upset. I know we’ll find it,” Mom said, digging around in a hamper of laundry.

  “I looked everywhere. It’s gone, Nel.”

  “It can’t be.” She yanked cabinet drawers open, flinging old receipts, rubber bands, nails, and pens to the floor. And she claimed I was the one who turned the house upside down looking for lost treasures? Jeez. “We should file a police report,” she said.

  “A police report?” I asked, startled. “What happened?”

  “The front door was open when I came home a couple of weeks ago. I assumed your father forgot to lock it on his way out. But now things are missing.”

  “Things? What things?” My stomach twisted in a queasy somersault.

  “Well, just one thing. Your father’s gold watch. He wanted to wear it to his big meeting this morning, but he couldn’t find it.” Mom shook her head. “You’d think a small town like Bridgebury would be safe, but I’m afraid we’ve been robbed.”

  “Robbed?” I gulped.

  “We don’t know that for sure, Nel. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  “How else do you explain it?” She slammed a drawer shut. “I can’t imagine what dreadful person would do this. Steal from us! Everyone knows we’re struggling.”

  I opened my mouth to confess. Sure, they’d be mad at first, but once they cashed in my tree’s latest crop and paid off those pesky bills, they’d forgive me. They’d be so happy, so grateful for my cleverness. I wouldn’t be invisible, not in the slightest.

  Dad exhaled. “It’s just a watch.”

  “Exactly. We can get you another. A better one,” I said, gathering the courage to begin my confession.

  Mom looked up from the bookcase she was dismantling. “That watch was an heirloom, Isabel. It belonged to your grandfather. It’s irreplaceable.” A heap of cookbooks fell to the floor. Pages of cakes and casseroles smashed into the linoleum.

  “That’s beside the point,” Dad said.

  “Beside the point? How can you say that, Nathan?”

  “Because I don’t need it anymore.”

  Had the tree finally bloomed? Had Dad already plucked a glittering replacement from its branches? If so, why was his face swallowed in shadow instead of shining with happiness?

  “You’re not making any sense. I’m calling to report a theft.” Mom marched across the room.

  I had to stop this before it was too late. “Wait! Don’t call the police.”

  She tore past me and lunged for the phone.

  “Nel! Stop. Isa’s right. Calm down.” He lifted the receiver from my mom’s hands and placed it back on the cradle. “Listen to me. Please.” His eyes bore into hers, forcing them to focus. “I don’t need the watch anymore.”

  “What are you talking about?” she snapped.

  “Because,” I said, stepping closer, lifting my chin. I was ready to tell them everything.

  Dad interrupted me. “Because I’ve got all the time in the world now,” he said glumly.

  “What?” Mom and I asked in unison.

  Dad went to the hallway, then returned holding a cardboard box. He dropped it onto the kitchen table. I leaned in to see if it contained the gleaming jewelry harvest. Nope. Only a jumble of papers, folders, and framed photographs.

  Mom backed away. “What is that?” she asked, horrified. I didn’t think a cardboard box could be so upsetting, but apparently this one was.

  “What does it look like?” Dad’s shoulders rolled forward, like the weight of everything resting on them was just too much to handle.

  “A box?” I offered.

  They both turned and stared blankly at me, as if they had forgotten I existed. A moment passed, then they returned their attention to the box.

  Mom shook her head. “It can’t be.”

  Something was clearly wrong with her brain, because it was definitely just a box. Square. Brown. Cardboard.

  “I was laid off,” Dad said.

  “You mean transferred?” I stammered.

  “No. It’s worse than that, I’m afraid.”

  Worse? How was that even possible?

  “The company is being reorganized.” He pinched the space between his eyes. “That’s what the meeting was about today. They cut half of our department.” He shook his head and eyed the cardboard box miserably. “Said they were giving us time to re-evaluate our careers and seek out new opportunities. What a load of baloney.”

  Nothing moved or broke or crashed, but everything was suddenly destroyed.

  “We don’t need time,” Mom cried out. “We need a paycheck. Plus, we rely on those health care benefits.” She staggered backward, nearly tripping over the pile of cookbooks. “What are we supposed to do now?”

  I could almost hear the call of bedsheets, luring her back upstairs. Away from us again. Dad must have, too, because he crossed the room in three quick strides and placed his hands on her shoulders. He guided her into a chair. Mascara ran down her face in black streaks.

  “Anything . . . anything . . . is . . .” I tried pushing the words out, but they clung to the cliff of my lips and refused to budge. Mom blinked her raccooned eyes, looking defeated.

  I could feel a giant mass growing in my gut, toxic as one of Junie’s tumors. Guilt and doubt and worry and a whole bunch of other uglies ganging up together.

  Mom turned and buried her face in Dad’s shirt, smudging the crisp whiteness. He looked down at her and then back up at me. He shook his head, like he wanted to be everywhere at once. “We’ll figure something out.”

  ***

  The screen door slammed behind me. The burrs and brambles in the meadow scratched my ankles worse than Mrs. Tolson’s chickens. My muscles were exhausted from softball practice, but I made them sprint faster. I charged toward the clearing. Wishing. Hoping.

  But also dreading.

  I stopped and stared. I rubbed my eyes. No. Please no.

  The branches were still barren. Not a single bloom or bud or brooch.

  Worse than that, the seedling was sick. The leaves were cloudy and wrinkled. None of them rustled or sparkled. The trunk looked gaunt and gray. The limbs sagged. All the things I thought were coming together were now untethered. Adrift.

  Falling.

  Apart.

  I replayed the conversation with my parents over and over in my head. We don’t need time. We need a paycheck, Mom had said. I realized with horror that I’d made a terrible mistake planting the watch. The tree had misunderstood. There would be no gold or diamonds or rubies. Instead of expensive timepieces, my father, now jobless, had an abundance of time.

  And my mother, who’d finally begun to come back to life, was teetering on the brink of someplace dark and distant again.

  I was such a fool! I should’ve listened more carefully to the tales about our property. I should’ve realized that magic, like Junie’s medicine, could have awful side effects.

  I dropped to my knees and clawed through the dirt, ripping up clumps of grass. I reached my hands down, down. The earth was cold and damp. Root tendrils shriveled and shrank away from my fingers. The tree flinched. It wanted nothing to do with me. Fine. Maybe it was better this way. Anger welled up inside. I’d find the wa
tch and leave. Then I’d never come back to this cursed orchard.

  I dug another hole, then another. Each was empty. The tree’s wilted crown drooped. I kicked wet dirt back into the holes. The ground was pocked and scarred. My heart felt the same.

  Be careful what you wish for. I could hear Junie’s voice in my head.

  If only I’d heeded the advice of a very wise six-year-old.

  Chapter 29

  During the drive to the hospital early the next morning, my parents and I barely spoke, silenced by an unbearable heaviness. No one mentioned jobs or money or stolen watches. It was like we all pushed a giant pause button, even though the problems were still there.

  We took the elevator up to the sixth floor, then checked in at the front desk. We’d gone through this routine many times before, but today it felt foreign and uncomfortable. We walked past the cheery activity room and the colorful murals. Edith waved when she saw me. I waved back, trying to look brave. In reality, I felt as flattened as the paper doll I held in my hand.

  “Can I have a few minutes alone with Junie?” I asked my parents, while we stopped for a round of disinfecting squirts. “We have some sister stuff to discuss.” Without grown-ups around, Junie and I were able to relax and talk freely, unfolding like flowers.

  They nodded, looking weary. “We’ll be down the hall if you need us.”

  I walked toward Room 612—just like our ages, easy to remember. Six for Junie, twelve for me. Beyond it was Room 613, which was the last room at the end of the hall. This struck me as a cruel joke. In October, I would turn thirteen. Would Junie turn seven in August? Or would we be stuck at six and thirteen, like the next room number plaque seemed to suggest? I tried to fling the thought as far away as I could, but it tangled around me, itchy and suffocating.

  “Junie,” I whispered, standing over her sleeping body. She was surrounded with stuffed animals. I placed the paper doll in her palm. “Junie,” I said again.

  She twitched. Her eyes opened slowly. She looked at me, then over at the doll. “NED!”

  “No, it’s me, Isa.” I was frightened by the possibility that she might not recognize me.