The Secrets of Blueberries, Brothers, Moose & Me

by Sara Nickerson

  “It’s time, Missy,” he said. “We should go down.”

  We were about to go downstairs to a backyard bursting with people and flowers. We were about to stand underneath a gazebo decorated with white ribbons and red roses while our father proclaimed his love and commitment to someone who was not our mother. What in life could I believe in? What could I trust?

  “Patrick,” I said, “the next time you lie to me, or abandon me, or do something that destroys—”

  “Okay, Missy,” he said.

  “Okay what?”

  “I won’t. Ever again. Can we please just drop it?”

  I tried to get him to look me in the eye. I glared hard. He barely met my gaze, but I could tell it wasn’t out of shame or guilt or anything like that. His thoughts were completely with what was about to happen instead of what had already happened. Maybe they were with Shauna, even. He was moving away. That’s what people did.

  And me? What about me?

  I sat down on the bed, cornflower blue falling around me like a perfect summer sky. I thought about Moose and Lyle, their father and the Little Field and what Al had told me about the blood feud. I thought about Bev’s ghost boys, reminding her of happier days. How easy it would be to let one another slip past and not let any of it matter.

  Everyone needs to find a way to make peace with the humanity of others, Al had said to me that day. That just might be your bigger lesson out here.

  Was that what it had all been about? A lesson? And if I couldn’t learn it, then would everything that happened ever add up to anything more than some bills stuffed in a jar underneath my bed?

  Patrick held out his arm. “We should go,” he said.

  Could it be that simple? Could I just stand up and take his arm and forget all that happened? Walk down to our father’s wedding smiling like I meant it?

  “You go ahead,” I said. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  “Come on, Missy,” he said, and held out his arm again.

  “I said go ahead!” I was afraid that if I breathed I would cry, so I held my breath.

  “Missy.” Patrick dropped his arm and looked straight into my eyes. And then he said it—the one thing I needed, the only thing that would work. “I can’t do this without you,” he said. “I just can’t.”

  My brother. My Patrick.

  I nodded until I could finally speak. “Okay,” I said at last. I stood and straightened my dress. “Okay.”

  “Hey, I just remembered something else.” Patrick reached into his jacket pocket. I saw a flash of white. “Your friends told me to give this to you.”

  “What?”

  “Constance and Allie. I saw them at the lake. You wouldn’t call them back, so they told me to give this to you on Dad’s wedding day. They said to look for them.”

  I reached out and took the brand-new pair of 3-D glasses from his hand. The lenses had been removed and the front was perfectly decorated with shiny white fabric and my favorite color glitter glue. It even had a new Spectacular Button, tiny and red.

  “Here?” I said. “They won’t be here. Not after how I acted—”

  “Of course they’re here, Missy.”

  Heart pounding, I ran across the hall to Patrick’s room, where the big window overlooked the backyard. I saw Claude, happy in the arms of one of the Cleveland people. And then, there they were, standing against the back fence, wearing pretty dresses and, yes, 3-D glasses!

  “Missy?” Patrick said from the doorway.

  Putting on my own glasses, I spun back around. And maybe it was because I’d moved so fast, or the room was too hot, or my Spectacular Button was pushed to high, or I’d just been thinking about Moose and Lyle, or my eyes were filled with tears. I don’t know. But that’s when I saw them, just a flash of them. I saw our younger selves, Patrick and me, our own paper-thin ghost selves. They surrounded us. They played and fought and danced at our feet.

  “Patrick! Did you just see that?”

  “What?”

  They had lasted as long as a blink, just long enough to let me know they were there, that maybe they would always be there. Because, really, where else could they go? Who else would know to take care of them?

  “What is it, Missy?”

  I shook my head. I closed my eyes and opened them again. “Nothing. I guess I was just remembering. That’s all. I was just remembering when we were little.”

  “We should get down there.” Patrick took a deep, nervous breath and, once again, held his arm out to me. “You look good, Missy.”

  I looked at him gratefully. “You too.”

  “Really?” He tugged at his sagging pants. “Does this suit look too big on me?”

  “No,” I said, seeing my brother clearly, in Spectacular 3-D. “You look perfect. You look just right.”

  I took off my glasses and left them there on the windowsill, overlooking the gazebo and the flowers and the new step-relatives from Ohio and my very best friends.

  Then I took Patrick’s arm and held on tight. And together we walked out the door, across the hall, and down the stairs. To our father’s wedding.

  ONE LAST THING

  A WEEK AFTER THE NEW SCHOOL YEAR STARTED, A package arrived for me in the mail, with a letter attached. The package was about the size of a shoebox. I read the letter before opening the package.

  Dear Melissa,

  Al said that you came by to see us. Both myself and Bev are sorry we missed you. You were the best picker we had and we hope you will come back next year to pick for us again.

  The Little Field is doing just fine. Those kids didn’t hurt the bushes at all, just took the berries. I don’t mind so much. Al told me what you said about feeling it was your fault and I appreciate the sentiment but want you to know that sometimes things just happen. I don’t believe for one minute it is your fault. Not one minute.

  There is one other thing. I don’t know if you recall, but in the Little Nickel advertisement there was an announcement about a prize to the best picker. Well by my calculations that would be you. So here is your prize. Wear it proud and know that we farmers need to stick together.

  Warmest regards,

  Moose

  Carefully, I opened the box, unwrapped the tissue, and lifted out my prize. It was a brand-new, bright green hat with a yellow stag, just like the one I saw Moose wear out in the field, every day. And it took me right back, to dewy cold mornings and sticky hot afternoons. To wildflowers and honeybees and old trucks and tire-track roads. Clanging buckets and old-man stories and tangy Kool-Aid and award-winning cherry pie. It made me think of Moose, who loved his plants like they were his family. And even after all that happened, he still trusted me with his family. The bright green hat took me there, to all of that. So I put it on. And I wrote a letter back.

  Dear Moose and Bev,

  Thank you for the hat. It fits perfectly. I will wear it next summer, when I am working in the fields again. I can’t wait.

  I signed it,

  Your friend, Missy.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my trusty group of early readers: Heather Barbieri, Trilby Cohen, Sarah Conradt, Danika Dinsmore, Michael Hagan, George Laney, Colleen Preston, Simon Schwartz. Extra-credit thanks to Matthew Reid-Schwartz, who read every single word of every single draft. And Sarah, also, for the blueberry bushes. And Alex Kuo and Joan Burbick, always.

  Thanks to SCBWI for helping me put all my pieces together.

  Thanks to my agent, Liza Pulitzer Voges, for her upbeat ways and unflappable encouragement.

  Thanks to Melissa Faulner, Rosanne Lauer, Irene Vandervoort, and everyone at Penguin Random House who worked to support this book and make it shine.

  So many thanks to my editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, who asked the right questions and then continued to ask (patiently, thoughtfully) until I got to the heart of each answer. The best pa
rts of this story came from those questions. Really.

  Thanks to my parents, Sue and C.J. Nickerson, who let summers be about digging holes, learning to grow things, and playing outside, way past dark. Thanks also to my brothers, Dan, Dave, Jay, and Jim, who remember the details, fill in my blanks, and are some of the best storytellers I know.

  Thanks to my sons, Simon and Jasper, for their good humor and perspective.

  And thanks beyond thanks to my husband, Matthew. For his inspiration, patience, smarts, musical accompaniment, and everything else.

  SARA NICKERSON

  started her career as a writer and producer for television and film. Her first novel, How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found, was originally conceived as a screenplay while studying at the University of Washington. She lives in Seattle with her husband and sons.

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