The Backward Season Page 2

“And maybe you’re right about Mama. Maybe, until she finds out what happened to Emily, she won’t be able to come back to us for real.”

  “Yes! Which is why—”

  “But if, once upon a time, there was an Emily, there isn’t an Emily now,” Natasha concluded. She maintained eye contact for barely a moment before looking away. She rose to her feet and brushed the dirt from her jeans. “I’ve got to go. I’m meeting Stanley at Rocky’s Diner.”

  A lump formed in Ava’s throat. “Meeting your boyfriend is more important than this?”

  Natasha studied Ava with an expression Ava couldn’t interpret. “Ava, I’m going to ask you a question that you’re not going to like.”

  “Fantastic. That sounds awesome.”

  Natasha continued to look at her, and Ava felt a jolt of recognition. Pity. Natasha was looking at her with pity.

  “Omigosh,” Ava said. “Just ask.”

  Natasha squatted so that she was at Ava’s eye level. She propped her elbows on her knees and stacked her forearms. One small nudge from Ava, and over Natasha would go.

  “You think you’re the only one who can solve our family’s problems,” Natasha stated. “I understand why you feel that way. I love you for feeling that way.”

  Ava waited.

  “The thing is,” Natasha continued, “are they actually your problems to solve?”

  Ava almost laughed. This was Natasha’s big question? The absurdity of it, combined with Natasha’s earnestness, made it tempting to tease her sister. Maybe she’d poke Natasha after all, just to see her topple over.

  “Um, yeah, they are my problems to solve,” she said, trying to keep a duh inflection from her tone.

  Her reasoning was simple. On the third day of the third month after a girl’s thirteenth birthday, every girl in Willow Hill got to make three wishes: an impossible wish, a wish she could make come true herself, and the deepest wish of her most secret heart.

  Natasha had made her wishes.

  Darya had made her wishes.

  Ava was the only sister with wishes left to use, as Natasha well knew. If Ava didn’t fix things, who would?

  “You don’t understand what I’m saying,” Natasha said. “What I mean is, did you make Mama abandon us when we were little kids?”

  No more laughter.

  “Mama didn’t abandon us,” Ava said. Except she had, and Ava knew it. All three sisters knew it.

  “Did you make Emily disappear?” Natasha persisted.

  Ava stared at her lap.

  “And Ava, even if you did cause any of this, which you didn’t, what if there is no way to make things better?”

  “I’m not a baby,” Ava said under her breath. She could sense her sisters glancing at each other over her head.

  “Sorry, what?” Natasha said.

  “I’m not cute or adorable or someone who just . . . floats through life.”

  “You’re muttering. I can’t understand you.”

  “Too bad, so sad,” Ava said, barely moving her lips.

  Natasha placed her hand on Ava’s shoulder. Ava’s chest rose and fell.

  “Ava, it’s going to be okay,” Natasha said.

  “How can you say that when you just said there’s no way to fix things?” Ava cried. “My Wishing Day is in two days.” She gripped her journal and shook it. “That’s why I brought this, so we could come up with ideas, and I could write them down. Ideas for what to wish for!”

  “Listen to me,” Natasha said firmly. “Whatever you wish for will be the right thing.”

  “You just said it won’t be! You said I can’t make anything better, so why should I even try?”

  Natasha sighed heavily. “Just . . . do what feels right at the time. Trust yourself. I do.”

  “Natasha!” Ava wailed.

  Natasha gave Ava a hug. She even kissed the top of her head. Then she pushed herself up, ducked through the willow’s branches, and was gone.

  Darya rose next, finger-combing her hair and announcing that she had plans with her friend Tally.

  “Wait, what?” Ava said. “You can’t leave, too!”

  “Natasha’s right,” Darya said. “It’s not your job to take on all the world’s problems.”

  “It is my job to take on our family’s problems. Our whole family’s problems.” Ava lowered her voice, even though Natasha was out of hearing range. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Darya hovered on one foot, then the other.

  “The picture Tally drew,” Ava said. “I kept waiting for you to tell Natasha. When you didn’t, I figured . . . I don’t know. That for whatever reason, you weren’t ready to.”

  “Excellent deduction,” Darya said.

  “But Tally’s your best friend, just like Emily was Mama’s best friend!”

  “Don’t bring Tally into this,” Darya warned.

  “Tally already is in this! And Tally’s mother—”

  “Has been in and out of mental hospitals Tally’s whole life,” Darya interrupted. “She’s not ‘eccentric’ like Great-Grandma Elnora. She’s got schizophrenia. She can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.”

  “‘She can’t tell what’s real and what’s not,’” Ava repeated. She half laughed. “Do you even hear yourself? Can any of us tell what’s real and what’s not?”

  Darya glanced past Ava at some indeterminate location.

  “Oh, come on,” Ava said. “It’s got to be the hugest coincidence in the world that Tally was placed here, in Willow Hill, with her new foster parents. Unless, that is, it wasn’t a coincidence.”

  “Drop it, Ava.”

  “But you found the picture. You figured out who it was a picture of.”

  “And I decided to leave it alone!” snapped Darya. “You’re clinging to the past just as much as Mama, Ava. But guess what? Tally wants to move forward—and so do I.”

  Darya spun on her heel and pushed through the willow’s fronds, leaving Ava alone and bewildered. She wanted to move forward, too. She did. Just, she wanted that for everybody, with no one left behind.

  Beneath the willow tree, Ava uncapped her pen. She opened her journal and considered the blank page before her. A honeybee buzzed in a meandering path in front of her, and Ava considered it instead.

  Hi, little bee, she thought. What about you? Do you have any brilliant ideas to pass along?

  The bee stopped midflight, rotating to face her and hovering in a single spot, looking for all the world as if it was returning her gaze. Just before Ava was convinced that something truly odd was going on—something magical, even—the bee zipped off.

  Ava couldn’t help but laugh, and laughing was good. It created room between her ribs.

  A moment later, the bee hummed past her again, coming from the opposite direction. Well, hello again, little bee, Ava said silently. Did you forget something?

  She smiled at the thought of the honeybee returning to its hive for a bee-sized cell phone or wallet. Or . . . what? A good luck charm for collecting pollen? A kiss from its honeybee honeybun? Maybe even honeybees made mistakes the first time around.

  She caught her breath, a preposterous idea buzzing into her mind. She examined it from multiple angles, then gripped her pen and bent over her notebook, scribbling down her thoughts before she could convince herself not to.

  The facts:

  * When Mama was thirteen, she made a bad wish. She made her best friend disappear.

  * Her best friend’s name was Emily.

  * Emily was also Papa’s little sister.

  * Mama went mad with guilt, and eventually, she decided she couldn’t take it anymore. So she left.

  * Now she’s back, but I think she feels so guilty about everything that she’s stuck in the past. I think she does want to move forward, but can’t. I don’t think she’ll be able to until somebody rights the long-ago wrong that led to this mess.

  * In other words, somebody has to do a do-over—and that somebody is me. That someone can only be me.

  Ava dr
ew her notebook to her chest and hugged it close. What needed to be done was impossible, but Ava didn’t let herself dwell on that.

  Impossible situations called for impossible solutions.

  That’s what wishes were for.

  I wish I could find a way to heal.

  —NATHANIEL BLOK, AGE THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ava

  “Angela, won’t you have some more corn bread?” Aunt Vera asked, and Ava quietly ripped her napkin into shreds beneath the table.

  “Absolutely,” Angela said, accepting the bread bowl. “It’s delicious.”

  It was delicious, but tonight the corn bread stuck in Ava’s throat. Family dinners were supposed to be for family. When Ava had returned home that evening, however, she’d seen Angela’s cheerful blue pickup truck parked behind Papa’s ancient tan pickup truck, which was dented and scratched. He used his truck to transport the lutes he made in his wood shop to the art fairs where he sold them, the same art fairs that Angela frequented with her handcrafted jewelry.

  Ava had spent hours in Papa’s truck, sometimes in the cracked vinyl passenger seat in the front, sometimes in the back with the lutes. She wasn’t supposed to ride in the bed of the truck. No seat belts and all that. But Papa said kids used to always ride in the backs of pickup trucks, so he let her, if the route was on country roads and not highways. Ava loved the freedom of riding in the open air, her hair whipping around and the warm sun bringing out the tingly scent of the linseed oil Papa buffed the lutes with.

  Ava loved Papa’s dented-up old truck. She did. But Angela’s blue truck was SO CUTE. Ava felt disloyal for thinking such a thing, but there was no denying it. Equally undeniable? How cool it was that Angela, all delicate bangles and dangly earrings, drove a truck, period.

  Ava wouldn’t mind driving such a truck one day.

  Ava would adore driving such a truck one day.

  And if Mama were here, and Angela were for sure just a friend of the family, Ava would gush over Angela’s truck and maybe ask if Angela would give her a ride in it.

  But Mama wasn’t here. Neither was Aunt Elena, who, if she were present, could run interference and do all she could to remind Papa that he was already taken. Not just “taken.” He was married!

  Instead, Angela was here, and she’d clearly taken care with her makeup and her outfit. She wore perfume that smelled like what Ava imagined the ocean smelled like, fresh and exhilarating. Ava wanted to hate it, but couldn’t.

  And Aunt Vera! Aunt Vera was Mama’s older sister, and yet all evening long, Aunt Vera had treated Angela like a welcome guest. She seemed pleased that Papa was coming out of his long hibernation. If only Aunt Vera knew that Mama was back in Willow Hill! Rather than offering Angela more corn bread, maybe she’d throw a piece at her.

  Well, no, Aunt Vera would never throw corn bread at anyone. But maybe she wouldn’t fawn over Angela, refilling her iced tea and making polite conversation.

  Ava stabbed a spear of asparagus with the tines of her fork, accidentally scraping the china plate.

  “Ow!” Darya cried, pressing her hands to her ears.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” said Ava. She tried to be mindful of the fork-on-plate thing. Everyone did, for Darya’s sake. “I’ll be more careful!”

  “It’s okay,” Darya said, still wincing. “Just, it really does hurt. It’s like an ice pick in my head.”

  Angela looked concerned and interested, both. “Do other sounds hurt your ears, too? Fingernails on a chalkboard, that sort of thing?”

  “We don’t have chalkboards anymore,” Darya said. “We have Smart Boards. But yeah, pretty much any sound that’s high-pitched. Also, Jolly Rancher wrappers. When people unwrap Jolly Ranchers, I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “Jolly Rancher wrappers?” Ava said. This was news to her. She felt weird knowing that she and Angela were both learning this for the first time. She felt . . . like a bad sister, somehow.

  “And those dried wasabi peas,” Darya went on. “When people bring them for lunch, and they make that squeaky, crunchy sound?” She shuddered. “I have to get up and leave.”

  “Maybe you have misophonia!” Angela exclaimed, sounding delighted.

  “Misophonia?” Darya said.

  “Do you hear sounds that other people don’t?”

  “Sometimes I’ll hear a refrigerator humming when no one else can,” Darya said dubiously. “That sound doesn’t hurt, though.”

  Angela nodded as if every word out of Darya’s mouth was a gem. “Highly sensitive people are more sensitive to the world around them,” she said. “Highly sensitive people are also likely to have vivid dreams and be quite artistic.”

  “I guess my dreams are vivid,” Darya said. “I’m not artistic, though. My friend Tally? She’s artistic. She’s an amazing artist.”

  Ava’s eyes flew to Darya. Darya’s cheeks reddened.

  “Well, your father tells me you’re very creative,” Angela said. She smiled at Papa and touched his arm.

  Ava shoved back her chair. “May I please be excused?” she asked. She didn’t wait for a response, just picked up her plate and utensils and headed out of the dining room and into the kitchen. “Thanks for the—” She broke off. Thanks for the delicious dinner, that’s what the girls usually said to Aunt Vera.

  “Thanks for dinner,” Ava said. She was being petty, and she was ashamed of herself. After all, it wasn’t as if Angela had claimed the word “delicious” for her sole usage. She couldn’t, even if she wanted to. “It was really good.”

  As Ava rinsed her dishes, she heard a soft knock on the back door. Ava slid her plate into the dishwasher and curiously flipped on the outside light.

  She froze. Then she shook herself and flung open the door. “Mama!”

  Mama smiled nervously, placing her finger over her lips.

  “Sorry, right,” Ava said, dropping her voice. “But . . . hi! Come in!”

  Mama slipped in, more of a scuttle than a step. She wore faded jeans, a soft white T-shirt, and red shoes styled like ballet slippers. She had on red lipstick, too. A slender gold necklace circled her neck, a single rose-colored pearl resting in the hollow of her throat.

  “You look so pretty,” Ava whispered. Her heart thumped like crazy. Gesturing at the platter in Mama’s hands, she said, “And you made brownies! Papa’s favorite!”

  “How do you remember my brownies, silly girl?” Mama asked with a smile.

  “Because Papa talks about them! Well, he hasn’t in a while, but—”

  From the dining room, Angela’s happy laugh rang out. “Nate!” she said playfully. “That’s very sweet. Girls, do you know what a sweet man your father is?”

  The color drained from Mama’s face. Her eyes looked wide and afraid.

  “Mama, please don’t leave,” Ava pleaded, reaching instinctively for her.

  Mama backed away, shaking her head. She pushed open the screen door with her hip and stepped outside.

  “Mama, please.”

  “Who is she?” Mama asked.

  “No one!”

  “She isn’t no one. What’s her name?”

  “Angela, but she’s just a friend. She and Papa go to art fairs together.”

  “They . . . go to art fairs together,” Mama repeated.

  “Not like on dates or anything. They’re just always at the same fairs at the same time!”

  “I see,” Mama said faintly.

  “Ava?” Papa called from the kitchen.

  “One sec!” Ava called. Should she pull Mama into the house? Should she physically grab her and hold on to her?

  Mama thrust the brownies at her, and then she was gone, the screen door thumping behind her.

  Ava heard Papa’s heavy footsteps. She pivoted away from the back door.

  “Ava,” Papa said. “I came to check on you, because you seemed . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Are you upset about something, honey?”

  Ava shook her head.

  He
put his hand on her shoulder. “I know—well, or maybe I don’t. I don’t want to put words in your mouth.” The weight of his love made her want to cry. “But it can be confusing to be a teenager. And with your mother gone . . .”

  She’s not gone! Ava wanted to say. She was just here!

  “Do you like Angela, sweetheart?” Papa asked, and his vulnerability broke Ava’s heart. He was moving on. He was finding happiness again. What was Ava supposed to do? Stomp her feet and throw a fit? Tell him she didn’t like Angela, even though she probably secretly did, or could, if it weren’t for everything else going on?

  “Here,” Ava said, handing him the plate of brownies. Her voice hitched. “For dessert.”

  Papa’s face lit up. “Brownies!” He raised his voice. “Ava made brownies, everyone!”

  “Oh, wonderful!” Angela caroled.

  “You’re a good kid, Ava,” Papa said, shifting the brownies to one hand and giving Ava a one-armed hug.

  “You’re a good papa, Papa,” Ava whispered, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her face to his shirt. He gave her one more squeeze before heading back to the dining room.

  “You coming?” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

  She forced herself to smile. “Be right there.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ava

  That night, after Angela left, Ava got to the den first and claimed the TV. She used the remote to scroll through menus and punch in selections, and within minutes, the movie she’d picked was playing.

  “Back to the Future?” Stanley said half an hour later, following Natasha into the room. He must have come over after dinner. He dropped onto the other end of the sofa, and after a moment, Natasha sat down between them.

  “I watched this three times in a row the first time I saw it,” Stanley said. “Can we join you?”

  “You already have,” Ava pointed out.

  “Oh,” said Stanley. “True. Do you want us to leave?”

  “It’s fine,” she said. Ava liked Stanley. He was tall and lanky and shy, though he’d grown less so over time. Most importantly, he treated Natasha well.

  “Awesome,” he said, and right away started reciting lines along with the characters. When Doc Brown showed up in his DeLorean, he laughed and said, “Yes.”