by Carol Weston
When we left, Kiki said, “See? That wasn’t so hard. Now you have to meet Isaiah.”
“Isaiah from Dalton? Haven’t I met him? You’ve been friends forever.”
“I think that might be changing.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
We said good-bye, and I walked alone to Riverside Drive. Near the Joan of Arc statue on Ninety-Third, a sign said “Treecycle,” and I saw a small pile of discarded Christmas trees. I headed down toward the winding entrance to the park, turning left at the hippo playground, which stood hushed and empty. The community garden was stubbly and brown. Even the dog run was desolate. Two men with strollers walked past me, and two older women were jogging. But the park was silent—it wasn’t vibrant, like in spring and summer and fall. Yet it had a stark beauty of its own.
I breathed in the cold air and remembered that exactly one year earlier, on New Year’s Day, I’d skipped the building brunch and walked across Central Park with Kiki. A few days later, I’d helped Dad dismantle our dry and droopy tree. My life had seemed to be closing in on me. Now it was opening up. I’d moved, made friends, started high school, and was going out with Sam, who was on his way to see me.
People say, “Life is short,” and sometimes, that turns out to be true. But for most of us, life is long. And knock on wood, tocar madera, my life—I was realizing at last—was mostly ahead of me.
I was glad there was a giant evergreen glimmering in our new home. Glad that Dad and Kate were getting their marriage license, and that in two weeks, the Halsey chaplain was going to officiate a small ceremony. Brian had joked they could make it a double wedding, but Bryan said no, they would take photos of the bride and groom and that would be their wedding gift. Brian added, “Still, you two are inspiring! There could be another wedding down the road.”
“Not a shotgun wedding,” Bryan added, and everyone laughed.
The most incredible thing was that I was going to be a big sister. Dad kept monitoring everything, and it appeared to be “all systems go”: one healthy baby, coming right up. Kate didn’t want to know the sex, but I did, so he said he’d tell me if I agreed not to reveal it.
“Can you keep a secret?” Dad asked.
“My father got my pen pal pregnant, and I didn’t tell a soul,” I replied. “I’m almost too good at secret-keeping,” I added.
He beamed. “It’s a boy.”
I felt pleased that I’d still be Dad’s only daughter, favorite daughter. And I pictured myself teaching the baby clapping games and Spanish lullabies. That night, Alexa said she’d show him how to shoot hoops—adding that he’d be “a natural at dribbling.”
No doubt the baby would demand a lot of attention, but maybe he’d unite us all more too.
I liked that in our new home, it was always okay to talk about my mom or Alexa’s dad. We didn’t have to pretend there hadn’t been other chapters, other loves, other lives. I was also glad Kate didn’t expect me to call her “Mom” and wasn’t planning on taking Dad’s name. In my mind, I had just one mom, and there was just one Mrs. Wolfe.
I followed the path toward Mom’s tree and stood before it. The tree was bare, of course. No leaves, no blossoms. But it was taller than it used to be, strong, sturdy, growing. Alive. Soon, it might be covered with ice, but there would also come a day when it would bloom.
I looked at the tree and whispered, “Feliz Año Nuevo.”
The tree was silent.
I did not need or miss my mother as much as I used to. I’d pushed through month after month and had gotten to where I could walk around the hole in my life without falling in, where I could think about her with pleasure, not just heartache. Right now, for instance, I didn’t feel like crying. What I felt was that somehow, my mother was with me—with me and within me. Abuelo had told me he felt her presence when he strolled along the hillside of Castilla too. She was inside both of us. Maybe outside too. Maybe everywhere.
Like a moonbow. I knew this was childish, yet I liked to imagine my mom watching over me. Not in a weird, supernatural way. In a quiet, natural way.
I looked at the spindly branches of the dogwood, and it was as if I heard her answer: I am watching, Sofia. What could be more natural than a mother watching over her child? Why should love end just because life ends?
My heart started thumping, and for a moment, the tree blurred. I listened hard, and I heard—or thought I heard—I’m here. Still here. Right here. I never really left.
It was my mother’s voice! Not my mother, no, but her voice, her words, her spirit!
I studied the tree and felt a deep calm. I’d been thinking I might tell her about the Snow Ball and my chorus solo and maybe even the baby. Instead, I put my palms on the small tree trunk, closed my eyes, and whispered, “Gracias, Mamá. Thank you.”
A hundred yards away, a loud voice boomed across Riverside Park. “Hey, Sofia!” Sam was striding toward me. “There you are!”
I looked up, startled. Then I waved and began to walk toward him.
“Here I am.”
Acknowledgments
Writing Speed of Life was not one bit speedy. I spent years writing and rewriting this novel, and I could never have finished without family, friends, and pros. Now it’s time to thank all those who offered encouragement along the way. My husband, Rob Ackerman, and our daughters, Lizzi and Emme, read the book not once, not twice, but several times each. My writer mom, the late Marybeth Weston Lobdell, read two drafts. My brothers, Eric and Mark Weston, and sister-in-law, Cynthia, all weighed in, as did Sue Bird, Jean Bird, Sarah Jeffrey, Gene Ackerman, and the Squam Lake Cousins.
Many other students, friends, interns, and experts provided invaluable insights and feedback: Denver Butson, Sam Forman, David Nickoll, Claire Hodgdon, Jennifer Lu, Karolina Ksiazek, Kathy Lathen, Patty Dann, Judy Blum, Michelle Ganon, Nicole Fish, Katherine Dye, Maggie Cooper, Stephanie Richards, Becca Worby, Amanda Boyle, Lucy Logan, Sydney Gabourel, Stephanie Jenkins, Cathy Roos, Rachel Wilder, David Gassett, Nora Sheridan, Suzannah Weiss, Olivia Westbrook Gold, Lily Abrahams, Elise Brau, Juan Antonio Martin, the Farris family, Tom Sullivan, and Eric and Sara Richelson. A special shout-out to Elise Howard, Michelle Frey, Laura Blake Peterson, Tracy Marchini, Jody Hotchkiss, and Peter Ginna. Thanks also to the doctors who came to the rescue with OB/GYN and ER expertise: Stephanie Bird, Adam Romoff, and Jan Johnston.
And where would I be without Susan Ginsberg and Stacy Testa of Writers House? I am also so grateful to the whole Sourcebooks Jabberwocky team, especially my editor, Steve Geck, as well as Dominique Raccah, Heather Moore, Alex Yeadon, Elizabeth Boyer, Margaret Coffee, Katherine Prosswimmer, Gretchen Stelter, Katy Lynch, and Beth Oleniczak.
A toast too to Karen Bokram who, in 1994, asked me to be the advice columnist at Girls’ Life. And to all the girls who have been sending me letters ever since.
About the Author
Carol Weston’s first book, Girltalk: All the Stuff Your Sister Never Told You, was published in a dozen languages and has been in print since 1985. Her next fifteen books include The Diary of Melanie Martin and Ava and Pip, which The New York Times called “a love letter to language.” After her studies at Byram Hills High School in Armonk, New York, and School Year Abroad in Rennes, France, Carol majored in French and Spanish comparative literature at Yale, graduating summa cum laude. She has an MA in Spanish from Middlebury. Since 1994, she has been the “Dear Carol” advice columnist at Girls’ Life magazine and has made many YouTube videos for kids and parents. Carol has appeared on television shows, such as The Today Show, Oprah, and The View, and has written for many magazines, including Seventeen, YM, Cosmopolitan, Bride’s, Glamour, Redbook, Cigar, and American Way. She and her husband, playwright Rob Ackerman, met as students in Madrid, Spain, and live on the Upper West Side of New York City, where they raised their two daughters. Find out more at carolweston.com.
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