Wishing Day Page 7

  “Next year, I’ll be thirteen,” she’d said.

  “But not until after I turn thirteen,” Darya had said. “I’ll turn thirteen before you do.”

  “Duh,” Ava had said.

  “But as of tonight, you are twelve, and that’s cool, too,” Natasha had said. “Sheesh, Darya. Can you let Ava have this one night all to herself?”

  Now, with the dinner dishes put away, Aunt Elena called everyone around the kitchen table and told them to take a seat.

  “Peppermint Patties,” Ava said, eyeing a large ceramic bowl full of shiny, foil-wrapped mints. “Yummy. Are they Birthday Peppermint Patties?”

  “Where’s Nate?” Aunt Elena said, scanning the room. She opened the back door and sighed when she saw the lights on in Papa’s workshop. “Nate?” she called. “Na-ate!”

  “Let’s just play,” Darya said.

  “How do we play?” Ava asked.

  “Yes, Elena,” Aunt Vera said. She strode to Aunt Elena, reached past her, and closed the door. “Illuminate us.”

  Aunt Elena turned toward the table. Natasha caught a glimpse of sadness before she shook it off, smiled, and took her seat.

  “The goal is not to eat them,” Aunt Elena said, batting Ava’s hand from the bowl.

  Ava made a sound of protest. She was wearing her new necklace, the one with the heart on it that Natasha had given her. It looked pretty.

  “Not right away,” Aunt Elena said. She selected a Peppermint Pattie and unwrapped it. It was nearly the same size as a quarter. “The goal”—she tilted her face to the ceiling and put the Peppermint Pattie on her forehead—“is to get it into your mouth without using your hands. Then you can eat it.”

  As she talked, the movement of her jaw made the mint slip off her forehead. It landed on the table, and she laughed. She tried again, and by doing a lot of undignified tensing and wiggling of her facial muscles, she was able to navigate the mint all the way down to the bridge of her nose, at which point it once again fell off.

  Everyone laughed.

  The chocolate coating was beginning to melt, and when Aunt Elena put the mint on her forehead for a third time, her fingers came away sticky. She contorted her face to move the mint, and this time, as it inchwormed down her face, it left a trail of chocolate. But by tilting her head sideways, she got the mint onto her cheek, and from there, precariously into her mouth.

  “Yes!” she said, thrusting her fist into the air. She chewed and swallowed and grinned. “Score!”

  “I want to try,” Ava said, grabbing a mint.

  Natasha and Darya each took one too. So did Aunt Vera, though she simply unwrapped hers and popped it into her mouth.

  “Hey! Cheating!” Ava cried.

  “Vera, that was very naughty,” Aunt Elena scolded. “Do you understand, or do I need to give you a time-out?”

  Aunt Vera rolled her eyes. “You have chocolate on your cheek.”

  Natasha giggled. Her aunts were fun when they were in moods like this. Next to her, Ava scrunched and unscrunched her nose intently. She tried to watch the Peppermint Pattie’s progress, which made her cross-eyed.

  Natasha glanced at Darya, and they shared a smile. They looked away quickly—both of them—but Natasha felt happy.

  After several tries, Ava got her mint into her mouth. She high-fived everyone and said, “Yes!” just like Aunt Elena had. And, like Aunt Elena, she had chocolate smeared all over her.

  She grabbed a second mint, unwrapped it, and said, “Silas would not be good at this.” She paused and tilted her head. “Or maybe he would. Would he?”

  “Who’s Silas?” Natasha asked.

  “A boy in my class. He goes to Ms. J for tutoring too, but he doesn’t like her to say it out loud.”

  “Say what out loud?” Darya said.

  “‘Silas, isn’t it time for you to go to tutoring?’” she said in a voice that was an awful lot like Aunt Vera’s. She switched back to her normal voice. “He doesn’t like people to know. I told him it doesn’t matter, but . . .”

  She shrugged and licked a smudge of chocolate from her finger. “Anyway, he has such a tight grip that I can’t unfurl his fingers at all, not once he’s latched onto me.”

  For a moment, no one responded.

  Then Natasha said, “Why does he grip you?”

  “Because he likes me. And by the way, there is one thing about being me that I don’t like, and it’s that Silas always wants to play with me during recess, and so does Melody and so does Alvinia. So do a lot of people. But Alvinia wants me all to herself, and I don’t know what to do because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.”

  “Oh,” Natasha said. She frowned. When she was in the sixth grade, did she have playground problems? No, because she read books, usually. She got permission to spend recess in the library. Or, on the days she didn’t, she strolled with Molly around the playground’s perimeter, listening and laughing as Molly babbled about whatever.

  “Can’t you play with all of them?” she said. “Or, like, rotate?”

  “Did you not hear a word she said?” Darya asked. “No. She can’t.”

  “Darya, watch your tone,” Aunt Elena warned.

  Ava looked at Natasha kindly. She patted her hand and said, “It’s okay. Mainly I was just saying that everyone thinks it’s so great to be popular, but sometimes it wears me out.”

  “Yeah, Natasha,” Darya said. She turned to Ava. “I understand, because I’m popular, too. Natasha just doesn’t know what it’s like.”

  “Darya,” Aunt Elena and Aunt Vera said at the same time.

  Natasha wasn’t as bothered by Darya’s comment as her aunts seemed to be. It stung, and Darya was being a jerk, but in Darya’s mind, she probably thought she was being funny.

  And Natasha wasn’t popular. So? Everyone was different, including Ava and Darya. They were both popular, but not in the same way. Darya wouldn’t choose Ava’s friends, Natasha suspected, and vice versa.

  “Also?” Ava said. Her mint fell off her face and she groaned. She leaned down and picked it up. “Alvinia just makes me mad sometimes, because yesterday I told her I would play with her, but that we had to let Melody play too or that would be mean, and I definitely didn’t want to be mean with my birthday right around the corner. And Alvinia started crying, only it was fake crying. And then she ran to Ms. Gupta and said she’d been bitten by a butterfly! And Ms. Gupta let her go to the office and get a cold pack!”

  “Wow,” Darya said. She caught her mint when it fell off her brow and just ate it.

  “What?” Natasha said. “Butterflies don’t bite.”

  “I know! There weren’t even any butterflies around! She basically got a cold pack for nothing, and now she’s going around telling everyone how scary butterflies are!”

  “Butterflies aren’t scary,” Natasha said. She felt outraged that this Alvinia person had suggested otherwise.

  “Of course butterflies aren’t scary,” Aunt Elena said. “My grandmother, who was you girls’ great-grandmother, said that butterflies represent rebirth.”

  “And rebirth isn’t scary?” Darya said. “Um, zombies, anyone?”

  “Our grandmother also said never to leave an empty bottle on the counter,” Aunt Vera replied archly. “Otherwise it will soon be filled with tears.”

  Everyone gave that some thought.

  “How do the tears get in the bottle?” Ava asked.

  “You’d have to cry right into it,” Darya said. “Or use the bottle as a Kleenex.”

  “No,” Ava said.

  “Or put Alvinia in a room with lots of butterflies, and put the bottle in there too,” Darya went on. “It could be a test. If Alvinia was scared of butterflies, she’d cry, right? If she filled the bottle with tears, she could prove it.”

  “There aren’t any butterflies in the winter!” Ava said. “Which is how I know Alvinia didn’t get bitten by one, because it’s too cold!” She huffed. “What I don’t know is what the butterflies do when it’s this col
d. Where do they go?”

  “France,” Darya said.

  “Some fly to warmer places,” Aunt Elena said. “Others hibernate.”

  “Butterflies hibernate?” Ava said.

  “They tuck themselves into the snuggest spots they can find,” Aunt Elena said. “Beneath the loose bark on trees, or inside a rotten log. They stay there until spring comes, and then they wake up.”

  Aunt Elena glanced at Aunt Vera. “It truly is magical, if you think about it.”

  “If you say so,” Aunt Vera said.

  “I do,” Aunt Elena replied.

  “Did Mama?” Ava piped up.

  “What do you mean, Ava?” Aunt Elena asked. “Did Klara what?”

  Ava grew uncomfortable. “Just, was she on your side or Aunt Vera’s? About the butterflies. Did she . . . you know . . .”

  She didn’t complete her sentence, but she didn’t need to, not for Natasha.

  Did Mama believe that butterflies were magic? That’s what Ava wanted to know.

  “Never mind,” Ava said.

  Natasha sensed the barest flicker of a memory. She strained to catch it, but it had already fluttered away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  There was a Johnny Cash song Natasha liked. Papa used to sing it, accompanying himself on the lute. It was slow and melancholy, but exactly the right kind of melancholy—though Natasha suspected that such a sentiment wouldn’t make sense to most people.

  “’Cause there’s something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone.” She loved that line. She understood that line. She, too, had felt alone when she woke up this morning. Everything was quiet. Everything was still. Outside, the snowy haze was infinite. Smoke curled from the chimneys of nearby houses, and that was the only indication that other people were out there, living their own Sunday mornings.

  Natasha looked out her window for a long time. At some point, Ava started rustling about, and Natasha moved to the wall that separated their rooms. She could hear Ava humming. Sometimes Ava added words. The words had to do with Ava’s hairbrush, from what Natasha could make out.

  There was something reassuring about Ava’s song. She was twelve now, but she was still Ava.

  Natasha opened her door quietly and stepped into the hall. She padded past Ava’s room, then past Darya’s. Darya was dead asleep. Natasha had no doubt about that. She was nearly impossible to rouse on weekdays, and on weekends, she stayed in bed till noon if the aunts let her.

  Her aunts’ rooms were at the end of the hall. Aunt Elena had moved into the guest room, and Aunt Vera had taken over Mama and Papa’s room. Not in a bad way; it was just that Papa never went in it anymore. He slept in his workshop, or downstairs on the sofa.

  Natasha saw that Aunt Vera’s door was open. Her bed was neatly made, and Natasha smelled the citrus scent of her shampoo, which meant she’d already showered. Soon, the smell of biscuits and bacon would fill the house. Aunt Vera believed in a hearty breakfast.

  Aunt Elena’s door was cracked, and the light was on, so Natasha knocked.

  “Yes? Come in!” Aunt Elena called.

  Aunt Elena’s bed was a mess. Aunt Elena herself was in her bathroom, curling her hair. “Oh, Natasha,” she said, turning a bit pink. “You must think I’m so silly, don’t you?”

  “Why?” Natasha said.

  “Playing with hairstyles. You know.” Her eyes brightened. “Want me to do yours?”

  “No thanks,” Natasha said, and Aunt Elena laughed.

  “Maybe one day,” she said.

  “I doubt it,” Natasha said.

  “Well, sit and chat with me,” Aunt Elena said, turning back to the mirror.

  Natasha sat on the edge of the bathtub. She watched Aunt Elena clamp a strand of her brown hair in the curling rod and roll it up. Aunt Elena counted to ten—Natasha could see her lips moving—then slid the curling rod free. A shiny spiral curl bounced against her collarbone.

  “I’ll brush it out, don’t worry,” Aunt Elena said. “In the end, it’ll just be waves.”

  “Okay,” Natasha said, though she hadn’t been worried. “It looks pretty.”

  Aunt Elena smiled at Natasha in the mirror. “You think? Really?”

  Natasha nodded. Aunt Elena was pretty no matter what. Her hair was several shades lighter than Natasha’s, and she shared the same delicate features as Ava and Darya. Ava and Darya both took after Mama’s side of the family (which was also Aunt Elena’s side of the family), while Natasha, with her serious eyes and darker coloring, looked more like Papa.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Natasha said.

  “Sure,” Aunt Elena said.

  “It has to do with the Bird Lady.”

  In the mirror, she saw Aunt Elena’s eyebrows lift.

  “Ava made me think about it,” Natasha went on. She found that she was clenching her fingers, and she made herself stop. “Because of how cold it is? And the butterflies? And just, you know . . .” She swept her hand to indicate Aunt Elena’s bedroom window, its view similar to Natasha’s. “Everyone stays in when the weather’s like this, for the most part.”

  Aunt Elena curled another strand of hair.

  “It’s just . . . where does the Bird Lady go? Where does she live? Where does she get her food?” Natasha’s fingers folded into her palms again. “What’s her deal?!”

  “Natasha, I don’t have an answer for you,” Aunt Elena said. “I’ve wondered the same things myself, many times.”

  “Well, that’s no help,” Natasha said. She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You’re right, it’s not any help.”

  “She’s so odd,” Natasha said.

  Aunt Elena nodded.

  “She wears pajama pants. She lets a bird live in her hair!”

  Aunt Elena lifted her shoulders. “Most people think she’s bonkers.”

  “Do you?”

  Aunt Elena studied her reflection. She shook out her hair to find any leftover straight parts, and when she did, she sectioned them out and curled them one by one.

  “When I was nine, I climbed to the top of Willow Hill,” she said. She bit her lip. “This story doesn’t have to do with whether the Bird Lady is bonkers or not, actually. Or maybe it does. Huh, I don’t know.”

  “Tell it,” Natasha said.

  “Well.” Aunt Elena put down the curling rod and unplugged it. She turned to Natasha. Her hair was a cascade of curls.

  “I was nine, and at the top of Willow Hill, I saw the Bird Lady,” she said. “She was threading her way in and out of the branches of the willow tree. You know the one.”

  The great willow. Natasha nodded.

  “In and out, in and out, like a needle through cloth. It looked like she was scattering seeds, and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “I asked if I could help,” Aunt Elena said sheepishly.

  “Oh,” Natasha said. She was touched by the image of Aunt Elena as a little girl, shyly approaching the Bird Lady.

  “I asked if I could help, and the Bird Lady said, ‘Took you long enough, didn’t it?’” Aunt Elena lifted her eyebrows.

  “Then she gave me a small leather pouch. Only instead of seeds, the pouch was filled with marshmallows.”

  “Marshmallows!”

  “It’s true. Vera never believed me, but your mother did.”

  Natasha swallowed. If Aunt Elena had been nine, her mother, Klara, would have been ten. Two years younger than Ava was now.

  “I started to scatter them as if they were seeds, but the Bird Lady put her hand on mine. ‘You eat,’ she told me. ‘Not for the birds. For you.’”

  “Was her hand wrinkly?” Natasha asked, remembering the day the Bird Lady gave her the second note. Her knuckles had been red, and her fingers had been stick-like and curved. Her skin had been as thin as crepe paper.

  “I think her hand has always been wrinkly,” Aunt Elena said.

  “It couldn’t have always been wrinkly. At one point, she must have been a girl h
erself.”

  Aunt Elena pursed her lips. “Can you imagine her as a girl?”

  Natasha tried, but in her mind’s eye, the Bird Lady refused to grow young. No backward time-lapse photography for her, no transformation from crone to matron to maid.

  Crone, matron, maid. Where had those words come from? They were just fancy words for an old lady, a woman, and a girl, but it was disconcerting how they’d slipped into her thoughts from nowhere.

  She gave herself a shake.

  “I can’t imagine the Bird Lady as a girl, no,” Natasha said. She cleared her throat. Her voice sounded rusty. “Did you eat the marshmallows?”

  “I did,” Aunt Elena said. Her eyes twinkled. “I know, I know, never take candy from a stranger. But the Bird Lady wasn’t a stranger, exactly . . .”

  “She’s just strange,” Natasha finished.

  “They were lighter than spun sugar,” Aunt Elena said. “They were extraordinary, Natasha. They melted in my mouth, and I felt lighter than spun sugar. So light I could fly! I couldn’t—yes, I tried—but for a week, my life was charmed. I was picked to feed our class hamster. My shoelaces never came untied, and my hair never got tangled. I found pennies on the sidewalk, and a blue glass egg. And for that entire week, no one got mad at me for anything, even Vera.”

  Aunt Elena stepped closer. She tucked Natasha’s hair behind her ear. “And your mother and I? We built the best house of cards in the history of card houses.”

  Natasha smiled uncertainly. She had so many questions about Mama, but when Mama’s name came up, she invariably got anxious.

  Aunt Elena perched on the rim of the tub next to Natasha. “Your mother was always good at card houses. We’d have contests, Klara and I, and mine always fell down before hers.”

  She clasped Natasha’s hands. “She took it very seriously. She built her houses to last.”

  A heaviness settled over Natasha. Until it mattered, she thought.

  “What’s that?”

  Natasha blinked. Had she spoken the words aloud? “Nothing. Never mind. I have no idea.”

  Aunt Elena searched Natasha’s expression, and Natasha brought back her stiff smile.

  I’m smiling, see? she thought, although she kept her lips pressed together to make sure no words spilled out this time. La la la, happy me. Go on and finish your story—doesn’t that sound nice?