by Beth Kephart
“There’s a big library up on Fifth Avenue,” she said, with stars in her eyes. “I always wanted to see it.”
“You kids,” Mom says, and keeps turning around, like she’s seeing us for the very first time, or like we’ve been gone for a year or maybe three. She says she’ll get mad soon enough but right now she’s mostly grateful. “All the way grateful,” she corrects herself, and Dad drives and now The Mister shakes his head.
“George would have loved this,” he says, and we ask to know who George is and he waits and he watches the road and he says, “Your father already knows; we talked about it on the way up.”
“Dad?” we say.
“Dad?”
But now Dad is wiping a tear from his face and he can’t talk, so The Mister does. Hawk and I scrunch up as close as the whale’s seat belts will let us.
This Is Not How the Story Ends
Turns out George was The Mister’s best friend, back in another century, when The Mister was a kid. Turns out George was Howard George Scholl, who was my dad’s own dad. Turns out Howard George was my granddad and that when he was a kid, for one month every summer, The Mister came to Mountain Dale, the prettiest land around. He came to Mountain Dale because George was here, and because they were best friends, thanks to their parents.
Turns out that you have no idea how any story’s going to end.
Turns out that some stories end right at the start, which means they make a circle.
Turns out that I’m glad for how well I hear. I don’t need a Spyglass for this story.
The Mister played in the shed on the hill when he was a kid, he told us in his Silver Whale, while Dad drove and Mom kept her hand on his wrist. The Mister climbed in our tree (he says it was much smaller then). The Mister fed the pigs, which didn’t have Treasure Island names. The Mister milked the goats, but they had horns. The Mister ate the tomatoes that grew here and the jam my great-grandmother made. The Mister knows how some of the things that are still broken got broken, and he says someday he’ll tell us.
The Mister was here every summer as a kid. George never left the farm. The Mister went off, around the world, moved from place to place as an artist. The Mister was far away, in a town called Verona, when the accident that killed my grandparents occurred. Two people that I never met and Mom only knew long enough to learn a little pie and Dad never talked about, because maybe it hurt too much for him to say what happened to them, or maybe we never asked my dad the right questions, or maybe when you’re the kid you think the biggest stories are your own.
“I never forgave myself for all the time I spent away,” The Mister said, after his long story was coming to an end. “I never forgave myself, and I always wanted to come back, and then I saw your ‘For Rent’ ad, and I knew where I was going.”
“Best story,” Hawk said. “Ever.”
“I wanted to tell you,” The Mister said. “I wanted to, but I didn’t know how. I never was so good with words. I was always much better with pictures.”
Dad drove silent, after The Mister’s story was done. He drove down the hills and up the hills and then to Mountain Dale. He drove us under the skirt shade of the trees and past the pigs and toward Figgis and Scaredy and Old Moe and the peacocks and also Phooey, who had started to worry that we’d all gone free range.
There’s stale sourdough left over, there’s Jane’s jam. There’s Mildred’s best and our fresh eggs and Isaiah’s square of cheese. Whatever we have, it’s for all of us, The Mister here included. Whatever there is, there is. Mom says she’d have made a pie if she’d known what was to come, and then Mom says that’s it better, isn’t it, when the surprise is the surprise you weren’t expecting.
We’ve turned the lights off overhead and lit the candles. We’ve let the cats in the house, and they’re behaved. When Old Moe makes his warthog sounds in the barn outside beside the hay shed that is no more hay shed, Dad does not apologize. He shrugs, the good kind of sad smile on his face.
“I remember,” The Mister has been saying, he keeps saying. “I remember.” And he remembers almost everything. He remembers it with words. The smell of the farm air. The whisper of the candle. The nonsense of the goats and hens and pigs. The Mister remembers and he takes us all back to the farm we love and the life we’re grateful for every day that ends, every day that starts.
The Mister says the pond was always where it is, but it was deeper. He says the hills were always the hills, but they seemed steeper. He says he used to climb the trees and look far out and imagine himself as anything in every place—small and big and far and near, with plenty more to imagine.
“Roundabouts: Book Three will be my last book,” he says. “My own book, published or maybe not. Book Three will be the end, but not really. The journey never stops.”
“Lucky,” Mom says, shaking her head, finding a curl of hair, making it curl harder on her finger. “Lucky we posted the ad.”
“Lucky you helped,” Dad says, nodding to the rest of us, “build the lighthouse.” Meaning Hawk. Meaning me. Meaning us, the Scholls.
Mom tucks her hair back into her bandanna. Her eyes catch the light from the candle flame.
I look at Hawk. He looks at me. He claps his hands over his mouth to keep his feelings in, but I’m letting my feelings out—I’m letting all the things built up inside of me be all the things I am. I’m crying like the best worst rain.
“Your mom and dad have been talking to me, Sara,” The Mister says now. “Your mom and dad have told me stories.”
I don’t know what he means. I know what he means. I wait.
“I’d like to do what I can to help,” The Mister says. “I’d like to get you that operation, if you let me. Giving to you would be me giving straight back to George, and I never thought there’d be a way, but maybe you’re the way. Maybe you can help me, Sara. Say yes, and I’ll be happy.”
I feel my breath go quick. I feel my eyes go hot. I look at Hawk and we are silent silent silent and then he raises his fist. I raise my fist back. We go knuckle to knuckle. The smallest, gentlest, swiftest tap, and now Phooey makes the loudest noise when we begin to laugh.
Acknowledgments
Becca Weust came into my life in the early months of 2016, when I began to write her story on behalf of Accolade, a corporate client for whom I write stories about patient care and health access. Steam was rising from a mug of forest-berry tea as we talked. There were fantasy novels and college texts on the Greco-Roman world on the shelf near her bed, a tuxedo cat named Figgis on the prowl among her bedsheets, and a big computer screen nearby, where sometimes Becca played e-sports and sometimes, instead, researched the connective tissue disorder Marfan syndrome, with which she had been diagnosed as a child. Becca had faced many complications from the syndrome—heart surgery and brutalizing headaches; a collapsing sternum and the deepest exhaustion; long, long stretches spent in bed, which is to say, not at school and not out with friends, and not down the street at a café, and now, not at the job she would be so good at doing.
Those with Marfan tend to be taller, longer, thinner, more curved than those without it. They also face the risk of the enlargement or tear of the aorta, the large artery that takes blood away from the heart; sudden lung collapse; severe vision issues; and early death. Surgeries can be complicated and expensive. Lives can be severely compromised. Some two hundred thousand individuals in the US have Marfan or a related condition, but experts say that perhaps half are undiagnosed. Many people are altogether unaware of this condition.
In the years since our first telephone conversation, Becca has emailed photographs of Figgis and blooming lavender and the purple-icing cake she managed to make during a spell of being better for a while. She has signed her notes “Amor Vincit Omnia” and “Yours with all the Himalayan rock salt your ions can handle” and “love” and “PS: Yesterday is a day for Aortic Aneurysm Awareness.”
She has educated me.
“For a while it felt like too many things were broken without any k
ind of resource to fix them,” she once wrote. “It was really difficult coming to terms with the idea that even if there is a ‘fix’ for this, I will very likely be reliant on others much more than I will ever be comfortable with. Finding a way to trade a dream of independence and self-reliance for something else, a something that I’m still struggling to feel a worthiness or balance in. People like to say that laughter is the best medicine, but I like to say salt is the best preservative.”
Becca has helped me understand what it is to live honestly and gracefully with uncertainty and pain, and when I asked if I might write a story not about her, but for her, she said yes. Sara, my main character, is not, then, Becca; Sara does not face nearly the number of challenges that life has brought Becca’s way. But Sara has a cat named Figgis and she’s extremely smart about seeds, and she knows a thing or two about baking, and most of all, she’s brilliant and funny and determined and questing and curious and real, and there would be no Sara without Becca.
Marfan syndrome lies at the heart of this novel, but Marfan hardly defines my twelve-year-old Sara Scholl. Sara lives her life on a farm in rural Pennsylvania with a Treasure Island–obsessed brother named Hawk, a character whose kindness and grit and literary insights are inspired by a former student and now most-excellent teacher, David Marchino. The farm itself was inspired by Mountain Dale Farm, an idyllic Civil War–era expanse nestled against a hill in central Pennsylvania. It was here, at Mountain Dale, that my husband and I met with our first group of Juncture Workshop writers—Annie, Hannah, Jessica, Karen, Kirsten, Lynn, Starr, Tam, Toby, Tracey, Wendy—to learn the language of ourselves and that land, to count the peacocks and scatter the chickens, to wait for the rain to fall. I am eternally grateful to Sally and Ken and their family—generous hosts in a historic place. Sally read this book with utmost care. I am grateful to her for that too.
For their willingness to review the text for any errors I might have made regarding Marfan syndrome, I am extremely grateful to Eileen Masciale, the chief program officer of The Marfan Foundation, and Josephine Grima, PhD, the Foundation’s chief science officer. The Marfan Foundation was founded in 1981, at a time when little was known about Marfan and related disorders. It was established to “advance research, serve as a resource for families and health care providers, and raise public awareness,” and when my note came in asking for help, it was answered, kindly, at once. Any residual errors are mine alone.
For being Becca’s strong advocate through many years of her health care odyssey, and for talking to me by phone after doing extra research on my behalf, I am unspeakably grateful to Amy Schmidheiser of Accolade, whose goodness is a permeating force. For cofounding Accolade and inviting me into its world, for all the conversations we have had about what matters to us and what might matter to the world, I thank my cherished friend, Accolade co-founder, Tom Spann.
Caitlyn Dlouhy was supremely instrumental in helping me reimagine this story and find its right ending. Karen Grencik brought her big heart to all the years when these pages were underway. Levente Szabó produced a stunningly perfect cover within the frame of a jacket designed by Debra Sfetsios-Conover. Valerie Shea and Jeannie Ng were gentle and thorough and appreciated. N. C. Wyeth’s masterful illustrations of Treasure Island and other Scribner Classics hang at the Brandywine River Museum of Art, where I’ve spent many days thinking about, and sharing, Hawk’s literary obsession. Debbie Levy and Ruta Septys bolstered me through long and treasured conversations. A young man named Oliver taught me indelible lessons about how to live. Alyson Hagy encourages me with her grace and intelligence. Mrs. Kalin, my second-grade teacher, was the first to believe in my own stories. My father helped me undertake research for the fire. My husband, Bill, listened and loved and lived that farm with me. Our son, Jeremy, remains the reason I search for, and try to, write (though it can take a long time, though there are many drafts) stories that can make a difference to those who find their way to them.
More from the Author
Wild Blues
About the Author
National Book Award finalist Beth Kephart is the critically acclaimed author of nearly two dozen books for both adults and young readers. Her most recent, Wild Blues, received multiple starred reviews and was a 2018 Booklist Editors’ Choixe: Books for Youth. Her other novel—including Undercover, Small Damages, and One Thing Stolen—have been also featured on numerous Best Book lists. She is an award-winning lecturer at the University of Pennsylvania, where she teaches creative nonfiction and fiction. Visit her at bethkephartbooks.com.
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/kids
www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Beth-Kephart
A Caitlyn Dlouhy Book
Atheneum Books for Young Readers
Simon & Schuster, New York
Also by Beth Kephart
Wild Blues
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Beth Kephart
Jacket illustration copyright © 2020 by Levente Szabó
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Atheneum logo is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.
Jacket design by Debra Sfetsios-Conover
Interior design by Irene Metaxatos
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Kephart, Beth, author.
Title: The great upending / Beth Kephart.
Description: First edition. | New York : Atheneum Books for Young Readers, [2020] | “A Caitlyn Dlouhy Book.” | Summary: If eleven-year-old Sara and her brother Hawk can complete a task involving the reclusive author renting out the silo on their farm for the summer, they will receive reward money that will pay for Sara’s life-saving surgery.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019004489 | ISBN 9781481491563 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781481491587 (eBook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Brothers and sisters—Fiction. | Authors—Fiction. | Marfan syndrome—Fiction. | Heart—Diseases—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | Farm life—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.K438 Gr 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019004489