by Sandra Smith
“—Oh,” he said. He regained his composure, “Tea, anyone?”
Chief waved his hand. “Nah,” he said, as my father poured us all water anyway, depositing bags into each cup. The Chief sat without being asked, and we did what he did, the three of us dropping into a sofa that threatened to swallow us.
My dad bustled around a bit more and finally sat, facing us. I studied his handsome face and willed myself to remain calm.
“How are you, my friend?” The Chief asked.
“I’m well, Chief. And how is everything with you and your family? I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”
“All is well.” Chief turned to Arturo and me. “I have come with a special gift. James, this is Lily.”
Dad crinkled his brow at the odd introduction. “Nice to meet you, Lily,” he said. “And…?” he looked at Arturo.
I jumped in, “That’s Arturo.”
“Oh,” Dad said to me, “you’re fluent. I wasn’t quite sure of your English ability. You look—”
And then he saw something, thought something, I don’t know what, but he knew. It all came together and he stopped talking. His chatty guest manners halted, his eyes welled up.
“Lily? My Lily?”
I nodded and before I knew what had happened, he was out of his chair and scooping me up in his arms. I was crying, he was crying, even the Chief was crying. Arturo loves to tell the story about how he had the only dry eyes in the house. About how lucky it was that the village was under drought conditions, otherwise our tears would have washed everything away. “Those Islanders need have to relocate again,” he would finish, as everyone laughed merrily.
“But how? Why? Is everything okay? Has something happened to your mother?” My father said at last, after hugging and crying and crying and hugging.
“Yes,” I assured him. “Everything is okay—well, sort of—Ma is fine. Don’t worry.”
“What does that mean, ‘Everything is okay, sort of?’” Already he sounded like a father.
At that point, the Chief suggested that he and Arturo go meet the villagers, excusing themselves and abandoning the untouched cups of tea. In the hours that followed, I explained to my father the events of spring and summer: why I left and how, about the people I had met on my journey, and everything I had learned along the way. He listened attentively, surprisingly asking few questions about my adventure. Dad seemed more interested in my ordinary daily life. “What are your best subjects in school? Tell me about your friends. What are your hobbies?” I told him how I loved writing, hoping he would love me more if he knew how alike we were. I ran to my backpack to show him my journal. As I pulled it out, the string of cranes fell to the floor. His eyes followed it.
He looked back up at me and smiled. “Bring it here,” he said gently.
I crossed the room and placed it in his hands.
“I see you’ve added yours.”
“You, you, know about this?”
“Of course.”
He fingered the third crane. “You know who made this one, don’t you?”
“Ma.”
He shook his head. “It was the custom that she should,” he said. “And she did. But I snuck out one night after she had gone to bed and replaced hers with mine.”
“You did? You made this crane?” I couldn’t believe it. Why hadn’t she told me?
It didn’t seem to bother him. A new animation overtook my father. “You know the Japanese legend about the thousand origami cranes, right?”
I nodded yes. Of course I knew. How many times had Ma told me? Sometimes I thought that was why she endlessly folded cranes. I mean, really, how much money could she possibly make selling origami?
He told me anyway, and how could I stop him? I would listen to him if he wanted to recite the alphabet to me. I wanted to hear his voice, watch his eyes light up. I never wanted to leave.
“The legend promises that anyone who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish by a crane—one of the holy creatures of Japan. There are different versions, like those who say you’ll get eternal good luck, others, just the one wish. Some say you have to complete the thousand cranes in one year and that they all must be made by the same person desiring the wish. I’m not sure which version your mother believed.”
I laughed. “I think Ma believes a little of everything. And I’m sure that if the legend is true, she will get her wish. Because, believe me, she has probably folded ten thousand origami cranes. Not to mention bats, frogs, cats, and popular cartoon characters.”
“Oh, Lily,” he said, walking over and hugging me again, “I’ve missed you both so much.”
If he had any plans for his day, he never let on. When we finally stopped talking—on account of hunger—we discovered three and a half hours had slipped by. Arturo told me later that he had been by a few times, peeking in the window, or listening outside, and had left again, not wanting to disturb us.
After asking if I was hungry, Dad had shyly admitted he didn’t have much food in the house. He ate most dinners at the homes of different villagers and lunched or brunched at one of the three village restaurants. One of these restaurants had only one table, so it wasn’t much different than eating in the home of a friend since half the time the owner refused to take his money anyway—which is what happened to us. When dad told the woman, who was both our server and cook, that I was his daughter, she embraced me and did a little dance. She proceeded to egg him into opening his wallet which held no identification but did have a baby picture of me. Which almost started me crying again.
Mindy—the woman—called out of the door for the whole village to hear, in English, and then again in another language, that “Mr. Gardener’s baby Lily had come to him at last,” finishing with what can only be described as a screech of joy. Others picked up the news and it spread across the hillside village like wildfire. By the time our steaming bowls of soup sat before us, a crowd of faces had gathered around our veranda table, watching and smiling. A red blush spread across my face, but I, too, was happy and smiled as I sipped the broth.
“Wow, what flavor is this?”
“What flavor? Oh, Lily, this is real soup. It’s not made from a bunch of extracts. Doesn’t your mother cook you real soup anymore?”
“Ma only serves the packets.” There was more I wanted to say. I still blamed Ma for so much. And yet I knew the whole story now. The things she gave up to protect me. But I wasn’t convinced she had made the right choice.
He was quiet. I wondered what he was thinking. He was thinking of her, I’m sure. But what about? The old days? Her decisions after he was imprisoned?
“Did she write to you?”
“No.” He shook his head and didn’t look up.
CHAPTER 40
Clare and Dante
It would soon be Easter, Clare’s favorite holiday. There had been a few years, when she was eight or nine, when her friends had almost convinced her otherwise, but all in all, she was an Easter devotee. She loved the season: spring, bursting with new life and warmer weather; she loved the plastic toy hunts in the malls and parks; and most of all, she loved the Holy Season, starting with Ash Wednesday and leading up to Easter Sunday.
This year, however, Clare anticipated it with mixed emotions. She looked forward to it because she knew the Woods would finally take her and Dante to church—which she dearly missed, and because, of course, Easter was her favorite holiday. On the other hand, she experienced the sadness of yet another holiday without her mother. Though she was eager to celebrate the holiday here, in a new setting, she couldn’t help missing the rituals of her own family, church, and town.
Clare made a conscious decision to deal with the conflicting emotions in advance, trying to let go of the sadder ones during Lent, so that she could enjoy Easter Sunday in perfect happiness.
Though she had suggested the Woods attend the Good Friday service, it had fallen on deaf ears. Sunday would have to do. They had attended Palm Sunday, and since the church w
as fifteen miles away, Clare didn’t want to seem ungrateful by repeatedly asking for more.
And now they were right on the edge of Easter, peering in. It was Saturday, and Clare and Dante were to color boiled chicken eggs. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to Marissa that the children had no knowledge of this tradition. So when she had started talking about “coloring eggs” and saving the best-looking ones from the hen house for Easter, she wasn’t expecting the blank looks and questions.
“Coloring eggs?” Dante had asked. “With crayons? What for? Won’t they break?”
She’d had to back up and fill in the details—boiled eggs, food dye, dipping, wax. Later on, Clare looked it up on the Monitor and showed Dante the pictures she had found.
She was amazed and delighted that her favorite holiday could get even better.
By nine a.m. Clare and Dante were dressed and in the kitchen, eager to decorate the eggs. Marissa said they could color three dozen eggs. Clare gently placed the first batch of eggs in the bottom of a large pot, covered them with water, and set them on the stove.
“How long until we can dye them?” she asked.
“I knew you would be in a hurry,” Marissa said. She reached for a bowl on the counter. “I boiled these last night.”
Clare and Dante squealed. “So we can color now?” asked Dante.
“First, we need to set up the table—cover it with paper, prepare the dyes … but yes, Sweetheart, we can get started soon. Jeanette is bringing over Cedric and Jonas in a few minutes. I thought it might be more fun for you to have other kids show you the ropes.” Cedric and Jonas were two of Marissa and John’s grandchildren. They were closer in age to Dante than to Clare and often visited the Woods.
“All right!” yelled Dante.
After the eggs were colored and the mess cleaned up, Clare continued to help Marissa prepare for the holiday. The boys ran around outside. Though early in April, the day was unseasonably warm and sunny.
“So we’re going to Cedric and Jonas’s house tomorrow?”
“Yes, dear. That’s one of the reasons Jeanette brought the boys over this morning. Keeps them out from under her feet.”
Clare smiled knowingly. “Will any of the other cousins be there?”
“Just J.M.’s kids.”
“That’s six all together,” Clare said.
“We’re taking apple pies and homemade egg noodles. You ready to help?”
“Of course.”
Clare had learned that each family brought a “specialty item” to holiday dinners. Maybe it was a unique gelatin dessert, or a specially prepared vegetable dish, rice made in an unusual way, or in the case of Marissa and John, something from their main crop: apple pie. Homemade egg noodles was also a standard for Marissa. She didn’t have a written recipe; she simply made them the way her great-grandmother had taught her. One of her daughters would carry on the tradition when she was gone.
Clare had decided that she, too, would learn how to make the noodles from scratch and by memory. This would be her third time assisting, and she thought she could do it without help.
“May I make the noodles?” she asked.
Marissa raised her eyebrows slightly. Her lips twitched as if she had started to speak and then stopped.
“You remember how?” she finally asked.
Clare nodded. “You can watch in case I mess up.”
Marissa agreed. There was plenty of flour should anything go wrong.
CHAPTER 41
Clare and Dante
Easter Sunday was everything Clare hoped for and more. Dante looked handsome in his new suit and bow tie, and Clare was surprised at the girl who peered back at her from the mirror. She recognized she was growing and changing and squelched the pang of sadness that came with the thought of Mama missing these changes. “Not today,” she said. “Only happy thoughts today.”
The church service was beautiful and very like St. Vincent’s. Again Clare focused on happy thoughts. As the choir sang, however, tears rolled down her smooth cheeks. Confused, she searched her emotions, finally deciding that tears don’t necessarily equate with sadness. She gently pushed the tears aside, no longer concerned, and smiled when she noticed other people dabbing the corners of their eyes.
After church they went straight to Cedric and Jonas’s house. The meal was fabulous, causing Clare to wonder how she could ever go back to processed packets. The adults, of course, lingered at the table too long but eventually got up and out, hiding the eggs in the yard for the children to hunt. It was a grand time, with lots of running and screams as one by one the brightly colored eggs were discovered and retrieved. Some of the older kids then took turns hiding the eggs until half a dozen were “hidden too well,” and Marissa suggested they move on to another activity.
“The skunks will be out here hunting tonight,” she laughed, as she confiscated the remaining eggs and urged the children to run along and do something else.
One of Clare and Dante’s favorite things about Cedric and Jonas’s house was the wooded area bordering a river. As the boys tore through the woods, putting birds to flight, Clare walked slowly, carefully observing her surroundings. Spring wildflowers peeked out of the lush green undergrowth. There were delicate and cheery lilies and pink fairy slippers. She bent and plucked a few to take back, hoping Jeanette wouldn’t mind.
At the river’s edge, the children found a hand hewn bench and Clare hoisted herself up; whoever had made it must have had long legs since it was rather too tall. Jonas and Cedric were messing with a large tree branch partially submerged in the river, but Dante was nowhere to be found.
“Where’s Dante?” Clare asked the two boys.
“Up here,” a voice called from above.
Clare looked up and gasped. Dante clung to the tip top of a tree near the water’s edge.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Clare’s voice betrayed her worry, two octaves higher and a bit severe.
“Climbing a tree. Who knew I was an expert tree climber?” he called gleefully.
Jonas had dropped the branch he was tugging and watched the exchange. “Help me up,” he said to Clare.
“No way.”
It was one thing for her brother to risk his neck, but she would not be responsible for some other child.
“Don’t even think about it, Jonas.” The little boy turned back and continued playing with his brother.
Clare refused to watch Dante. Seeing him up there, dangling over the swift current, tied her stomach in knots. At last she looked up again. “Dante, there’s a better tree over there,” she suggested, pointing to a larger tree with wider branches, farther inland. Then she closed her eyes and prayed. There is only so much you can do to protect the ones you love.
Later on, after dark, the whole bunch of them— parents, grandparents, and all—took flashlights and supplies and hiked back down to the river. They built a campfire, roasted marshmallows, and told jokes and stories. The grown-ups marveled at such warm weather in April, while the kids quietly marveled at being up past their bedtimes.
By the time Clare and Dante were back home and in bed, they were happily exhausted.
“What was your favorite thing about today?” Clare asked.
“Hmm. It’s a tie,” said Dante. “Climbing to the top of the big tree, and the campfire. Could you have ever imagined roasting marshmallows before, back home?”
“No,” she answered. “How could we?”
“What about you? What was your favorite part?”
Clare sighed. “Everything,” she finally said. “Everything.”
CHAPTER 42
Lily
After our late lunch, Dad and I headed back to the cabin. I looked around as we walked, wondering where Arturo and the Chief had gone. School had since let out, and dozens of kids ran around chasing soccer balls and each other. A raucous volleyball game was being played in the meadow.
We entered the cabin and sat at the makeshift kitchen table. The past having been dealt with, I now focuse
d on the present. “So what’s happening now?” I asked. “Are you still the leader of Seed Savers?”
“A lot of people want me to be … but I’m not sure if it’s for the best. I’m a fugitive, a convicted criminal in the eyes of the law. And … I messed it up so badly.”
“But—”
“—I don’t know if I’m the best person for the job.”
“You are!” I shouted. I don’t know why I did it. I guess because he was my dad, and he was sort of a legend. “Who else can bring the Movement together like you?”
“There is someone else now. Someone who seems to have a large base of support. Someone who has been able to communicate under the radar—like we did back then.”
“JALIL?”
He looked surprised. “So you’ve heard of him?”
“Only on this trip,” I admitted.
“Do you know anything about him?”
I shook my head. I only knew the name.
“That’s exactly what worries me,” he said. “The thing that gives JALIL the most potential—no one knows anything about him—is the very thing that concerns me. For all we know, JALIL is a terrorist to our Movement. Not only do we not know a thing about him—like where he’s located, or if he’s a real person—how does he get out his messages without being caught?”
He looked at me, but since I viewed it as a rhetorical question, I stayed quiet.
He continued. “And let’s say JALIL is for real and considers himself a Seed Saver. I’m not sure if I agree with his politics.” He stopped.
I had nothing to add.
“Oh, Lily, You’re just a little girl, why am I going on about this?”
