“So how long will the kid need braces?” Uncle Phil asks.
Dad shrugs. “Dr. Ashworth doesn’t know for sure yet, but she’ll probably need them for at least nine months.”
Uncle Phil whistles. “Long time. And there are all kinds of foods she can’t eat while she’s got those contraptions, right?”
Dad nods. “It’s a pretty big list. She’s not allowed to have popcorn, caramel, anything that contains nuts, chips, pretzels—”
Uncle Phil looks horrified. “You’re kidding me. You just described my whole diet, especially when I was a kid. Poor girl.”
I nibble carefully around the edges of a triangular watermelon slice. The fruit is dark pink and freckled with little white seeds. Its juice leaks out the corner of my mouth and dribbles down to my chin. Then, without thinking, I grab my napkin, press it against my jawline, and cringe in pain.
“Ugh.” I drop the napkin and the watermelon slice.
Mom’s hand appears on my shoulder. “Are you okay, Edie?”
I shrug her off. “I’m fine.”
“Are your braces hurting?”
“They’re fine. Little chunks of food keep getting stuck between the wires and brackets. But it’s okay.”
She still looks overly concerned. “If they’re bothering you too much, we could get you something else for dinner. Maybe you could just have a smoothie? Phil, do you have a blender?”
I open my mouth to protest, but Uncle Phil is already on his feet. “Sure thing,” he says. “I’ve got some bananas, some strawberries. What would the kid like?”
My teeth grind painfully together. I try to respond, but once again, I’m rudely interrupted.
“Do you have any greens? Spinach or kale, maybe?” Dad asks. “I don’t want her iron levels to get too low.”
“Donnie. No offense, man, but I never have that stuff in my fridge. I’m very anti-kale.”
“Really?” Dad sounds shocked. “But it’s a superfood.”
“Whatever you have is fine, Phil. I’m just worried about the pain—” Mom reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and I shove her hand away.
“I said I’m fine.”
Silence swoops down over the room like a bird of prey. Everyone stops talking and moving. Silverware stills against plates. Burgers freeze halfway to mouths. All eyes are on me.
I want to disappear.
My cheeks burn hot with guilt.
I didn’t mean to push my mother’s hand like that. But she’s not listening to me. No one around this table is. If they’d just let me speak, then they’d know that I don’t want anything. I don’t need anyone fussing over me.
I break the spell by scooting away from the table, staggering out of my chair. “I’m going outside for a minute,” I mutter. “Want some fresh air.”
I catch a glimpse of Uncle Phil’s stunned face before I turn and leave for the backyard.
I burst through the sliding door and slam it shut with a glass-rattling slap. I walk over to the edge of the patio. Drop down onto my butt. Hug my knees to my chest.
I’m just so sick of this. Of not knowing anything. Of them still treating me like a little kid.
The sliding door eases open and shut behind me, followed by Uncle Phil’s footsteps.
He sits down beside me. He doesn’t say anything.
William is splashing around in his little kiddie pool. He swims in circles, dunking his emerald-green head underwater, flinging water droplets as he shakes his beak.
The silence stretches between us, like the rolling weight of the summer heat. The concrete patio bakes my skin through my denim shorts. The sun warms my back, my dark hair. I can feel beads of sweat gathering across my forehead, against my neck, all along my hairline.
William turns and starts quacking. And quacking. And quacking. He quacks and honks and flaps his little wings, all while staring at Uncle Phil.
Eventually, Uncle Phil sighs. And then, in the most serious voice I’ve ever heard him use, he looks at William and says, “What the duck do you want?”
It’s probably the dumbest joke in history. But I can’t help it. I snort so loud, I have to clap my hands over my mouth. Another shock of pain hits my teeth, but it doesn’t stop the rush of giggles as they erupt out of me.
Uncle Phil side-eyes me. “There she is,” he says. “There’s my niece.” He reaches over and musses up my hair. I bat his hand away, and he lets it fall back to his side.
William finally stops quacking and resumes his diving routine. He’s showing off for us, fanning and ruffling his tail feathers.
“So,” Uncle Phil says. “You wanna explain what happened in there? It’s not like you to be so snappy.”
I hug my knees tighter against my chest.
“Did I do something that upset you?” he asks. He ducks his head in an attempt to meet my gaze. “You can tell me.”
I scratch my elbow. Avoid his gaze. “Not really.”
“Edie,” he says. “If something’s bothering you—I’d really appreciate it if you told me. Especially if there’s anything I can do to help.”
I consider his words. Peek up at him. “Uncle Phil,” I say. “Can I ask you about something that happened a long time ago?”
“Of course.”
“You can’t tell my mom, though.”
“I’m her big brother. It’s my job to keep secrets from her.”
“You can’t tell my dad, either.”
He shrugs. “Okay.”
My phone is a heavy lump in my pocket. As I trace it with my fingertips, I think of Serenity’s advice to confront my parents. I remember Amelia’s insistence that we keep the box a secret. And I decide that discussing this stuff with Uncle Phil is probably harmless.
So I ask him, “Do you know where my name came from?”
He hides his reaction well, but I still catch it. The slight widening of his pupils.
“Your name?”
“Yes. Edith.”
“Are you asking because you’re curious, or . . . because you think you know where it came from?”
“A little bit of both.”
I explain the discovery of the box. Without even meaning to, I tell him everything that’s happened over the past few days. I tell him about my friends’ reactions. I tell him about how my parents keep evading my questions. I tell him about the journal entry we read. I tell him about Amelia’s new idea for the film, which I promised to consider, even though I’m not comfortable with it at all.
“I just want to know who she was. I want to know why I was named after her, and I don’t understand why they’ve never told me about her. It makes no sense.”
Uncle Phil stares at me. As I catch my breath after my long rant, I stare back at him. His blue eyes are unexpectedly sad.
A thought pops up in my head. “Do you know anything about her?” I ask. “Do you know who the other Edith was?”
His throat bobs as he swallows. He looks away, but I can’t stop examining his face. The heavy lines around his mouth and under his eyes. The creases drawn along his forehead. The gray in his stubble.
Uncle Phil looks . . . older, all of a sudden.
“I can’t lie to you, Edie.” He sighs. “Never been able to. And I’m not about to start now.”
The fine hairs along my arms stand up. My fingers knot together in my lap.
And then he says, “I know where your name came from, kiddo. I know who Edith Graham was.” His eyes squeeze shut. “But I’m sorry; I can’t tell you anything about her.”
14.
Under Attack
July 9
No.
My heart hiccups in my chest. I blink once, hard. This was not the answer I’d expected.
“Oh. Why not?”
“I’m sorry.” Uncle Phil can’t even look at me. “But it shouldn’t be me. It has to be your mother. Your friend Serenity is right. You should go to her yourself. Ask about Edith Graham.”
I shake my head over and over. “I can’t. I promised Amel
ia I’d go through the box with her and—”
“I know you did, love. You’re a good friend for wanting to keep your promises. But this situation is . . . unique. And if she’s as good a friend as you are, she’d let you discuss it with your parents. She’d care more about you knowing your own truth, instead of focusing on her ideas for the film.”
My response is automatic: “She is a good friend. She’s one of my best friends.”
He glances at me now. His expression is skeptical and I hate it.
“But that’s not the point right now,” I say. “I want you to tell me about the other Edith.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“It can’t be me,” he insists softly. “It has to be your mother. You’ll understand when you learn the truth. She always planned on telling you about her, Edie. She didn’t want to keep it a secret forever.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
He gives a single nod. “It’s true. She was just waiting until you were old enough.”
“How old is old enough? Why do I need to be a certain age?”
He scrubs his face with both hands. “You’ll see, Edie. I’m sorry I can’t say more.”
Nothing makes sense to me anymore. Shouldn’t I be the first to know about the woman I was named after? Why are they making it such a big deal?
“Please try to trust your parents. Edie. They’re only doing what they believe is best.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“Maybe not. But their goal was never to lie to you. They just wanted to protect you.”
“Lying to someone is a weird way to protect them.”
“Touché.” He smiles. Musses my hair. “There’s something else I can tell you. A story from our family’s history.”
I lift my gaze. “What is it?”
He draws a quick breath. “So,” he says. “I was a deckhand on a commercial fishing boat for many years. I was mainly stationed out at Bristol Bay, for months at a time. Through stormy seas and cold, clear days. Waking up as early as three or four in the morning. It was a tough and dangerous life, but I made good money, and I didn’t see any real reason to stop.
“The year you were born, we had our biggest salmon run in years. We couldn’t reel the fish in fast enough. We broke records. We made tons of money. I came home and bought you all kinds of clothes and toys, because I loved spoiling my baby niece. I spent a lot of time with your parents. It was too bad my own parents were gone before you came along, but having you made it easier for me to cope with that loss. That first year of your life was one of the best in mine.
“It was hard, going back to the boat after I met you. And that following season, the one right after our biggest haul, was . . . well, it was terrible. There were almost no fish left in those waters.” He swallows. His voice drops. “It was our own fault; we took too many hauls the previous year. Not enough salmon were able to return to their spawning beds. We threw the whole ecosystem off-balance. The longer I stayed, the emptier those nets became, the more I realized that I was in the wrong business. I was a part of something destructive. And I wanted out. So I left.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. I’ve been involved in ecological restoration projects ever since. I also work with a lot of local tribes who are trying to save their traditional fishing rights.” He pauses. Glances at me. “I know this story probably seems very random, Edie. But believe me, it’s loosely related to Edith Graham. To everything that happened between her and your mother. And their tribal nation, their sovereignty. It’s all connected.”
“Okay,” I say. Even though I trust his word, I’m not sure what else to say. It feels like he just gave me a riddle to solve.
“I want you to trust me,” he says. “And talk with your parents. No more hiding, no more secrets.” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “In the meantime, here’s a question for you: Do you think you’ll be able to eat some birthday cake? Or are your teeth too sore?”
“You know, I’m not a little kid anymore. You can’t just say something about desserts and expect me to forget everything and move on.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Kiddo! That was not my intention at all. Even though it was extremely effective when you were small.”
“Can’t you at least tell me one thing about her?”
“Absolutely not.”
I widen my eyes and pout, giving him my best impression of a puppy dog.
Uncle Phil shields his face with his arm. “No,” he says sternly. “No way. Not falling for that.”
I press forward, craning to get back in his line of sight.
“Cut that out. Stop it. Enough.” In the background, William sits upright in the water and quacks. “I’m talking to you, too, duck!”
A giggle rises in my throat. “Be nice to William.”
Uncle Phil scoffs. “William should be nice to me. I’m the one under attack here.”
In a swift motion, Uncle Phil grabs me around the waist and starts tickling me. I kick and scream and roar with laughter, but he holds tight, refusing to let go.
“This is what happens!” His voice rumbles against me. “This is what you get when you side with the duck!”
I’m laughing so hard, tears are forming in the corners of my eyes. It’s like we’ve gone through a time warp, and I’m tiny and helpless against his tickle attacks all over again.
When he releases me, I still can’t stop giggling and gasping.
“Fine,” I manage to say. “Let’s go eat cake.”
“That’s my girl,” Uncle Phil declares. “But one last thing, before we go back inside—you have my number in your phone, right?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. We don’t text too regularly, but whenever we do, he ends his messages with “Thanks, Uncle Phil” or “Love, Phil.” As if I don’t have his name and number entered into my contacts.
“Yes,” I tell him. “Of course I do.”
He nods. “Good. If you ever want to talk about this again after you have that conversation with your mother, or you want to discuss anything else—anything at all—just shoot me a text.”
“I will. Thank you.”
We both get to our feet.
“And you won’t tell my parents we talked?”
“Not a chance. What are uncles for?”
As we approach the sliding door, Uncle Phil throws his arm around my shoulders. I lean into the hug, wrapping my arms around his belly.
15.
What’s Her Name?
July 9
“Haaappy birthday to you!”
A single candle is lit in the middle of a round chocolate cake. The frosting is thick and perfect and smooth. Uncle Phil blows out the candle, and we all clap and cheer.
“Well, that was fun. Thank you all.” He rubs his hands together. “While Chuck serves up the cake, I’m gonna open Edie’s present. Be sure to give the first slice to my niece. And give her plenty of ice cream, too. Nice and easy on the teeth.” Uncle Phil glances around himself. “Now, what did my niece get for me this year?”
“Edie,” Dad says. “Go get it for him, please.”
I hurry off to grab the gift bag from the living room. The tissue paper crinkles as I carry it back to the table, placing it in front of Uncle Phil.
“Thanks, kiddo.”
He pulls my gift closer and digs inside the bag for the card. His eyes pop as he pulls it free from the clouds of tissue paper.
“Holy smokes. Look at this.” He turns the handmade card around, showing everyone in the room.
I go pink. It’s not that big of a deal. I just drew a picture of the dog and William, sitting together in a summer meadow. I included little lines around the dog’s tail, to show he’s wagging and happy. And William has a small bubble floating above his beak, filled with the word Quack!
“It looks like William made a friend,” Uncle Phil says proudly. He taps the picture. “What’s her name?”
&nbs
p; “I think we’re calling him Bruno,” I tell him. “He’s a boy.”
“Edie and her friends are making a short film this summer,” Dad says. “And this dog is her muse. She’s working on the animation.”
Uncle Phil’s jaw drops. “She’s doing what now?”
“I told you there was a film, Uncle Phil.”
“Sure, you said you were making a short film with your friends, but you didn’t say anything about drawing pictures for it.”
“Oh. Well. I am.” I sink in my chair a little bit, aware of everyone’s eyes on me. “I wanted to try something I’ve never done before.”
“That’s amazing,” Uncle Phil says. “Absolutely incredible. So—how does it work? Will all the images be this detailed? This colorful? Are you some kind of prodigy, destined to animate award-winning films for Disney?”
I shake my head. “Most of the drawings will be pretty basic. Pencil sketches that show outlines and movement. But I want the ending to become more colorful, so that the final image will be a full-color landscape, if that makes sense?” This was our idea, from the very beginning. I don’t mention the fact that Amelia has been having second thoughts, because Uncle Phil already seems skeptical of her and I don’t want to make her sound like a bad friend.
Mom nods. “They’re entering a youth film festival this August. Her art teacher, Mrs. Barnes, tutored her in basic animation techniques, and Donnie installed the video editing software on our computer at home. He’s going to help the girls out with that aspect.”
“Unbelievable,” he says. “My niece is a twelve-year-old genius.”
I shy away from the praise. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m really not.” He returns his attention to the card. “So this little dog is your main star, huh? Will William also make an appearance?”
“I don’t know. I actually don’t even know if we’re going to keep the dog in the film. We haven’t settled on a story yet.”
“Keep the dog. Definitely keep the dog.”
He sets the card aside and fishes his present out of the bag.
It’s not much. Just a project I started in my after-school drawing club, which turned into a small canvas painting. The background is blue, and William is pictured in the center of it. I used a generic photograph of a mallard for reference, but Uncle Phil doesn’t need to know that. I know that when he looks at it, he will only see William, and that’s what matters most.
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