The Backward Season

by Lauren Myracle

  Emily frowned. “And it’s a gift? Are you sure? Because Mom says—”

  “I know what Mom says, and I don’t agree. Yes, it’s a gift.” Nate hesitated. “But Emily . . .”

  “You think I shouldn’t tell people,” Emily finished. She slumped. “That if I do, they’ll think I’m crazy, like Grandma Elnora.”

  “No,” Nate said. “I mean, yes about not telling people, but not the part about Grandma Elnora.”

  “I love Grandma Elnora,” Emily said defensively.

  “I do, too. I sometimes wonder if she messes with Mom on purpose, but I don’t think she’s crazy.”

  “But you think I should ‘blend in,’ like how Mom always says.”

  “That’s not it,” Nate said. “Or maybe it is, a little.” He gazed at her. “Do you know what I want, Emily?”

  She did, but she let him say the words. Anyway, her throat felt cloggy all of a sudden.

  He found her foot with his, connecting them across the bed. “All I want is for you to be happy.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ava

  Ava went from Rocky’s Diner to the apartment Mama shared with Aunt Elena. She let herself in through the unlatched screen door and heard Mama and Aunt Elena talking in the small living room. When Ava realized what they were talking about, she pressed herself against the kitchen wall and kept quiet.

  “Klara, you can’t go on like this forever,” Aunt Elena said.

  “I tried, Elena,” Mama said. “You know I did.”

  “Only after I practically pushed you out the door. Come to think of it, I did push you out the door.”

  “Another woman was in my house, sitting at my dining room table! What did you expect me to do?”

  “Here’s a thought,” Aunt Elena said. “You could have marched into your house and claimed your dining room table. While you were at it, you could have claimed your husband! But no, you ran away like a child.” She sighed. “Klara, you’re not a child.”

  “If Emily didn’t get to grow up, I shouldn’t get to either,” Mama said.

  “For heaven’s sake. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Ava heard the rustle of sofa cushions, followed by footsteps. Quickly, she opened the screen door and let it thump shut.

  “Ava! You startled me!” said Aunt Elena, who held a plate sprinkled with cookie crumbs.

  “Sorry,” Ava said. “I came to talk to Mama.”

  Aunt Elena tilted her head toward the living room and said, “Go on in. Can I get you something to drink? A Coke?”

  “Yes, please. Thanks.”

  Ava barely had time to greet her mother and sit down beside her before Aunt Elena returned with more cookies and Ava’s Coke.

  “This is a nice surprise,” Aunt Elena said. “How’s your day been going, Ava?”

  For a few minutes, they made light chitchat. Aunt Elena and Mama gave no indication that Ava had interrupted a strained conversation, and Ava was relieved to see that Mama was holding herself together. Mama was better than she’d been when she first returned to Willow Hill. She was better than she’d been even last month. Just, “better” wasn’t enough.

  Ava was surer than ever of the theory she’d proposed to her sisters. Mama was stuck. She didn’t want to be, but she was like a fly trapped in amber, and the amber was her guilt about Emily. Ava renewed her determination to tug her free.

  “Can we talk about Emily?” she asked abruptly.

  Mama flinched. “What?”

  With no time for the slow buildup, Ava turned to her aunt and said, “Aunt Elena, you’re one of the people who says Emily never existed. But your expression sometimes . . .” Ava cocked her head. “Is that what you really and truly think?”

  Aunt Elena’s eyes flitted to Mama. Then she stared at her hands. “I don’t share Vera’s opinion that Klara made Emily up,” she said carefully.

  “What is your opinion?”

  Aunt Elena hesitated, as if she were standing on a ledge trying to decide whether or not to leap. Then, in a tumble of words, she told Ava that although she had no memory of Emily’s existence, she did remember Mama confiding in her about her Wishing Day wish.

  “Mama told you? She told you about the wish that erased Emily?!” Sparks zipped and zapped in Ava’s brain cells. “Aunt Elena!”

  “What . . . exactly . . . did I tell you, Elena?” Mama asked, her face ashen. “And when?”

  Did Mama not remember, or was she testing Aunt Elena?

  “You told me how guilty you felt,” Aunt Elena said. “It was right after you made your wishes. Immediately after. You told me you’d promised Emily that the two of you would make your wishes together, but that you broke your promise and made your wishes alone.”

  Mama made a choked sound.

  “Whoa,” said Ava. “Go back. How could you and Emily have made your wishes together?”

  “Emily and your mom had the same birthday,” Aunt Elena explained. “That meant they had the same Wishing Day.”

  “Wait. What?!” Ava grabbed her hair by its roots. “What do you mean they had the same birthday? Why am I only hearing about this now?”

  “Oh, Ava, millions of people share the same birthday,” said Aunt Elena. “If you’d been born two days earlier, you’d have had the same birthday as your mother, too.”

  True, Ava acknowledged. Mama’s birthday was March thirteenth. Ava’s was March fifteenth, referred to by people of her parents’ generation as the ides of March. It was a Shakespeare thing.

  Beware the ides of March! countless people had warned her gleefully.

  You betcha! Ava was tempted to respond. I mean, I’d have to know what the ides of March are in order to beware of them, but sure!

  “All right, fine,” said Ava, bringing herself back on topic. Like a prosecutor grilling a witness on TV, she turned to Aunt Elena. She steepled her fingers. “Aunt Elena. Mama told you she’d promised to make her wishes with Emily, but she didn’t.”

  “She and Emily were going to make them at sunrise on their Wishing Day, at the top of Willow Hill,” Aunt Elena replied. “Instead, your mom made her wishes just past midnight, as soon as the fourteenth became the fifteenth.”

  “You came out of your bedroom just after I’d made them,” Mama told Elena in a near whisper.

  “I wanted a sip of water.”

  “I heard you in the hall. I opened my bedroom door and beckoned you into my room. We . . . talked.”

  “You told me you’d messed up by making your wishes by yourself,” Aunt Elena said. “You also told me . . . you know. About wishing you’d won that contest instead of Emily.”

  “That stupid, stupid contest.” Mama stared at her lap. “And then, the next morning, it was just like I said, as if Emily had never existed. No one remembered her. No one except Elena—and even Elena didn’t remember for long.”

  Aunt Elena’s lips parted. She made as if to speak.

  “What?” asked Ava.

  Aunt Elena closed her mouth and shook her head.

  Mama squeezed her hands between her thighs. “Everything was so awful. Everyone thought I was making stuff up! So I told Elena to forget everything I’d said. I had to.” She met Aunt Elena’s gaze, ashamed. “Over time, I convinced you that you’d made it all up—going to the bathroom, coming into my room, everything. You were young. You were easy to persuade.”

  “Slow down,” Ava said. “Mama, you waited until just after midnight to make your wishes, right? Then you heard Aunt Elena in the hall, and the two of you talked, and you told her you regretted what you’d done.”

  Mama nodded miserably.

  “But you were supposed to meet Emily at sunrise, at the top of Willow Hill. What happened with that?”

  Mama’s chin wobbled. “Elena went back to bed. I stayed awake. I waited until sunrise, and . . . I climbed to the top of Willow Hill.”

  “And?”

  Tears welled in Mama’s eyes. They spilled over and ran in rivulets down her cheeks. “I never set out to betray her
!” She turned to Aunt Elena. “And unlike you, I could never forget Emily. I never will forget Emily!”

  “Mama!” Ava said, her heart juddering.

  “Klara?” said Aunt Elena. “I’m not the villain here. Neither are you.”

  “But I am!” Mama cried. “Of course I am!” She banged the coffee table with her fist, making the cups and plates jump.

  Someone’s cool fingers found Ava’s. Gently, Aunt Elena squeezed Ava’s hand.

  “Everything changed,” Mama said savagely. “Every day, all day long . . . my thoughts circled and lunged and bit. That’s why I left Willow Hill, because I couldn’t escape myself. Can you understand that, Ava?”

  Ava nodded uncertainly. Before Mama left, she’d written a letter to each of her daughters, instructing Papa to distribute them when each girl turned thirteen. Mama’s letter to Natasha was richly detailed and apologetic. Her letter to Darya was pleading and melancholic. Ava had read them both, with her sisters’ permission.

  The letter Mama left for Ava, penned when Ava was only four, was . . . a dud. Ava felt bad for thinking that, but it was. Ava’s letter was a weary farewell written to a four-year-old out of an exhausted sense of duty.

  She can ask her sisters, Ava imagined Mama thinking as she completed the task of writing, folding, stuffing, envelope-licking. Why repeat every painful detail?

  In all three of the letters to her daughters, Mama claimed that she didn’t want to leave, but that she had no choice.

  Except she did have a choice. Choices were everywhere. People made them every day.

  When Mama left, she left us, Ava thought now. Mama. Chose. That.

  On Aunt Elena’s sofa, Mama fidgeted and drummed her fingers. “I promised myself I wouldn’t return to Willow Hill until I was better,” she said. “Completely better.”

  “Are you?” Ava asked.

  Aunt Elena scolded her with a look.

  Ava plunged on, even though it hurt. It all hurt so much. “When you left, were you trying to punish yourself?”

  “I was. Yes.”

  “Were you trying to punish us?”

  “No! Ava, never!”

  Ava didn’t respond. Mama could color it however she wanted, but Mama had disappeared, just like Emily. Only, Mama had disappeared on purpose.

  “I can see how you would think that,” Mama said. Her fingers curled on the tabletop, frail snails retreating into their shells. “But I wasn’t in my right mind. I’m not sure I have a right mind anymore.”

  “Self-pity won’t buy you a get-out-of-jail card,” Aunt Elena said. “We’ve talked about this, Klara.”

  “But just as I couldn’t let go of Emily, I couldn’t even begin to let go of you, Ava,” Mama continued. “You and your sisters. I missed you so much.”

  “And Papa?” Ava asked.

  “And Papa,” Mama said. She gestured at Aunt Elena, and then swept her hand in a broader arc. “And Elena and Vera. I missed you all. But I didn’t deserve you. Don’t you see?”

  Ava’s ribs tightened. She wanted to be done with blame. Not that she thought Mama was blameless! Mama had made a selfish wish. No way around it. Just, she’d been thirteen. Thirteen! Anyway, people made selfish wishes all the time. People did selfish things all the time. Even Emily herself must have thought and/or done selfish things at some point in her life!

  Ava pressed her hand to her ribs, trying to ease the ache.

  Emily.

  Emily had paid the biggest price of all for Mama’s actions.

  Except nobody knows for sure that Emily existed, Ava reminded herself. That means nobody knows for sure that she disappeared.

  “So why did you come back, Mama?” Ava asked slowly. “You didn’t find Emily, so you didn’t come home because of that. And you say you love us—”

  “I do love you,” Mama said.

  “But you refuse to come back home, or talk to Papa.” Ava held out her hands, palms up. “So why?”

  A shadow crossed Mama’s face. “I was pulled back. I can’t explain it. Just, I woke up one morning and knew it was time.”

  “Natasha’s wish,” Ava said.

  Mama nodded. “Yes. But I’m still . . . especially with your father, it’s . . .”

  “It’s complicated for all of us, Mama,” Ava implored.

  Aunt Elena smoothed Ava’s hair. “Your mother is worried that if she goes back to Nate, and then leaves again . . .”

  “Why would she leave again?” Ava asked. “Mama, why would you leave again?”

  “What if he’s with this Angela woman?” said Mama. She threw back her head and groaned. “No, that’s not it. Ava, it’s just . . . it’s Emily. Always Emily. What if the memories chase me away?”

  Ava’s skin tingled. All at once, everything in the living room grew sharper around the edges. The sun cut through the pale pink curtains. The light played over Mama’s face, and for a microsecond, Ava could see her as she might be: a new person, different from who she’d been for so many pain-filled years.

  “What if you found out the truth about Emily?” Ava asked. “The real truth?”

  Mama grew still.

  “What if Emily is safe and alive and . . . yeah,” Ava went on. “Would you stop beating yourself up? Would you work things out with Papa, or at least try?”

  “Ava, this isn’t something to joke about,” Mama said.

  “Who says I’m joking?”

  “Ava,” said Aunt Elena. “Do you know something about Emily?”

  Ava thought of Darya. She thought of Darya’s friend Tally. She thought of the picture Tally drew, the picture Darya refused to acknowledge even though Darya’d been the one to find it.

  She lifted her chin. “I do.”

  “What do you know?” Mama demanded, her voice raw.

  “Okay, maybe I don’t know yet,” Ava said. “But I will. I promise.”

  Mama stood, her shin hitting the coffee table. “Do you know how many promises people make, Ava? Do you know how many promises people break?”

  “I won’t, though!” said Ava. “I—”

  I promise. The word had been on her lips, so close to slipping out.

  Mama squeezed past Aunt Elena. “I love you, Ava. I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want from me. And I’m sorry”—she barked a laugh—“well, I’m sorry you can’t give me what I want, either.”

  She strode from the living room, her breath coming in gulps. “I’m just sorry, forever and ever sorry.”

  From the back of the apartment came the sound of a door being shut. Ava half-rose, but Aunt Elena put her hand on Ava’s knee. Ava sat back down.

  “Aunt Elena!” she exclaimed. “You’re crying! Why are you crying?”

  Aunt Elena reached for a napkin and blew her nose. She dabbed her eyes with the back of each hand. “Oh, Ava,” she said, letting out a shuddering breath. “Your mom’s not the only one with secrets.”

  I wish my sadness didn’t make other people sad, too.

  —KLARA BLOK, AGE THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ava

  “I don’t want to burden you with more than you can handle,” Aunt Elena said.

  “Aunt Elena, I’m not a baby,” said Ava.

  Aunt Elena gave a small laugh, and Ava worried she’d sounded rude.

  “I’m sorry,” Ava said. “It’s just, I’m the youngest person in my family, so everyone assumes I can’t handle things. But I can.”

  “Of course you can—and believe me, I understand. I’m the baby of my family, you know.”

  “Yeah. Aunt Vera, then Mama, then you.”

  “I fought like crazy to make my sisters stop treating me like a baby, and guess what?”

  “What?”

  She laughed again. “When they did, I missed it.”

  Well, I wouldn’t, Ava wanted to say.

  “It’s hard being the youngest,” Aunt Elena acknowledged. “It’s hard being the middle sister, too. And the oldest.” She paused. “There are advantages to each, as well.” />
  “What made you cry?” Ava asked.

  “I’ll tell you, but humor me for a second. I’m your aunt. I get to pass along sage advice, don’t I?”

  Ava didn’t want sage advice. She wanted to know Aunt Elena’s secret.

  “You, Ava, are your own self,” Aunt Elena said. “You’re obviously more than ‘the baby’ of the family. But, like it or not, you’re also part of a whole.”

  “One of the Blok sisters, you mean?”

  “You need Natasha and Darya, and they need you.” Aunt Elena tucked a strand of hair behind Ava’s ear. “You can resist being their baby sister, but would that change anything?”

  “They could stop treating me like a baby,” Ava said. “That would change things.”

  “Fair enough. I guess I’m saying . . . hmm. Don’t let your desire not to be a certain way be the biggest factor that molds you into you.”

  “I already am me,” Ava stated.

  Aunt Elena laughed. It was a real laugh this time.

  “What?”

  “You made me think of your dad’s mother, your grandma Rose. I only met her a few times, but according to your mom, she was quite set in her ways.”

  Ava cocked her head. “Please don’t tell me I remind you of Grandma Rose.”

  “She put those horrid plastic slipcovers over the furniture in her living room,” Aunt Elena said. “The nice furniture. The nice furniture that no one got to sit on.”

  “That’s just how she is,” Ava said defensively.

  “Oh, honey, I know! But Klara always wondered if Nate’s mom—your grandma Rose—became so rigid in response to her own mother’s eccentricities.”

  “Great-Grandma Elnora,” Ava said.

  “You remember her?” Aunt Elena said.

  “Only from stories. Enough to know that she’d never have used plastic slipcovers.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you saying that since Great-Grandma Elnora was anti–plastic slipcovers, that’s why Grandma Rose loved them?” She took the thought further. Since Great-Grandma Elnora believed in magic, was that why Grandma Rose hated it? Was that why Grandma Rose had flipped out when Ava pretended to sprinkle magic fairy dust over her bingo cards?