A woman made her way toward Madeline, hunched low, as if carrying a heavy load on her back. She wore a broad hat with pale violet flowers along the brim, and her grey hair stuck out like the straws of an overworked broom. Her patched and dirty skirt trailed the ground, and she carried a canvas sack. Madeline couldn’t imagine how she’d gotten in through the hedge that ran around the garden.
Another coughing fit overcame Madeline. Her vision blurred at the edges, and she pressed hard against her chest.
“Don’t get up, dear, rest yourself. It’s the hummingbird who’s in such a hurry, but I saw you, don’t worry, I already saw.”
“Does my mom know you’re . . .” Madeline couldn’t finish the question.
“Of course not,” the old woman said. She settled next to Madeline with a great deal of groaning. She looked at the house, her eyes sparkling, a smile tugging at the edges of her lips. Her face was weathered and wrinkled, but her eyes shone like black stones in a clear river.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Madeline said. “My mom won’t . . .” She stopped to catch her breath. “She won’t like it.”
The old woman nodded thoughtfully, then smoothed her skirt. “Mothers rarely do, dear. Now, to business.” She reached into her sack and pulled out a small white button, crusted in dirt, then a recently unearthed bottle cap and a small roll of twine. “I would like to borrow these.”
“Borrow them?” Madeline pushed her hand against her chest again, trying to get a deeper breath. “I don’t understand.”
“They are yours,” the woman said. She raised her hand. “Don’t deny it. I found them in your garden. The birds brought me the twine, and the squirrel mentioned the button, but I dug it out with my own hands. The bottle cap—well, I’ve had my eye on that for several seasons.”
Madeline tried to call her mother, but she couldn’t shout loud enough. She coughed and coughed, and the old woman put a fleshy arm around her shoulders. “My mom,” Madeline managed between coughs.
“I won’t cheat you,” the woman said. “I only want to borrow them. In exchange, I’ll give you three favors and one piece of advice.” The hummingbird zipped in front of them again and chirped twice. The old woman made a shooing motion. “I know what time it is, go on with you.”
Maybe the old woman would go if Madeline gave her what she wanted, and it was only a few pieces of trash from the backyard. “Take them,” Madeline said.
The woman beamed at her and collected the bits of junk, scooping them into her bag. “Thank you, dear. Thank you, thank you—and that’s three thanks for three items, so all has been done proper.”
Madeline wheezed a you’re welcome. She took a shallow breath. “Could you . . . Do you think you could ask someone to come out for me?”
The old woman looked to the house again, and her face crumpled. “Not for the wide world, dear.”
“For one of my favors?” She took the woman’s hand. “I can’t breathe.”
“The flowers sent word of that, they did. That’s why I came. But have they come to you? Have they offered you a bargain?”
Madeline gasped for breath. What was wrong with this woman—couldn’t she see that Madeline couldn’t breathe? The old woman stared at her with a steady gaze, waiting for an answer. Hoping the woman might help after she answered, Madeline shook her head. “Who? The flowers?”
“No, of course they haven’t. Not yet. I can’t get involved until then. Not much.”
Madeline lay back, coughing. The bright green leaves were waving in the branches. Clouds scudded in from the west, much too fast, covering the sun. She shivered and thought she could see the cloud of her breath when she exhaled. But it was too warm for that on this spring day. “Call my mother,” she said. “Or Sofía.”
The old woman’s face appeared over her. “No favors yet, my sweet seedling. But I can give you the advice now.”
Madeline closed her eyes. “Okay.”
The old woman squeezed her hand and whispered in her ear. But Madeline could scarcely hear her over her own racking cough, and when she could breathe enough to roll on her side, the sun was shining brightly again, and the old woman was stepping into the hedge, like a rabbit running into a thicket of thorns. She was gone.
Her mother’s cry of horror came from the direction of the house, and feet pounded along the garden path toward the shady space beneath the maple.
2
DARIUS
Love comes hand in hand with Joy.
FROM “RENALDO THE WISE,” A SCIM LEGEND
Madeline used to sing. In fact, she was lead soprano in the school choir last year, her junior year. She used to dance—ballet, contemporary, hip-hop, swing. She used to drive down the road with her friends, all of them shouting over one another, laughing at each other. She used to run track, her specialty being the marathon runs, where she could pace herself and feel her legs moving like pistons, her arms like pendulums, her whole body like the gears of a clock, ticking off the seconds to the finish line with precision. She had gone to State last year. She used to drive herself to school. She used to walk upstairs to her bedroom without stopping to catch her breath, clinging to the banister like a sea star suction cupped to a black rock.
She used to be able to breathe.
“I arranged your ride to school today,” Mom said, her voice making it clear this was a final decision. Madeline had used a similar tone of voice when her parents tried to get her to stop going to class. Stay home, they said. You’re too sick, they said. But when she did stay home, her parents didn’t. Dad had work, Mom had activities, and Madeline ended up in bed, hacking her lungs out, sweating through her sheets, lonely and miserable.
Her mom took a cup of steaming coffee from Sofía and leaned against the kitchen counter, brushing an invisible speck of lint from her ice-blue athletic top.
“I thought you would take me,” Madeline said. She had taken her inhaler fifteen minutes before, and for the next thirty minutes or so she should be able to breathe with relative ease. It was like pushing water in and out of her lungs, but at least the air moved. Sofía had made pancakes this morning, Madeline’s favorite. Madeline had barely touched them. Like it or not, she wasn’t well, and the thought of trying to rally the energy to pretend she was while her friends drove her to school, blaring music and trying to cheer her up . . . She didn’t want that today. A silent, uncomfortable ride with her mom would be better.
“I have badminton this morning.” Of course. Mom wore her pleated white badminton skirt, her platinum hair pushed back just so with a white headband.
“I can set up my own rides, then. It’s not far for Ruby.”
Her mother raised her eyebrows. “It’s fifteen minutes out of her way. I texted Darius.”
“Mom!”
“It’s not right, the way you’ve been avoiding him.”
“Why the sudden concern for Darius?”
Mom tapped her nails against her mug, taking another sip before saying, “You dated the boy for over a year and then dropped him without an explanation. He deserves better than that.”
“Without an explanation? Who told you that?”
“People talk, Madeline. Your friends were worried, and they mentioned it to me. Poor boy. He was always good for you. You should spend more time with him.”
“You don’t even like him.”
Mom shook her head. “Not true.”
“Oh yeah, then why the big sit-down in the living room before prom?”
Mom’s lips pressed together, making fine lines branch along her mouth. She always did that when she was done with a conversation. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.” She blew on her coffee and shook her head. “I’ll see you after school.”
As her mother walked from the room, Madeline shouted, “Dad’s exact words were, ‘He won’t provide for you the way you’re accustomed to.’ If that was meant to convey approval, I missed it.” She hadn’t raised her voice like that in a while, and it cracked, followed by a deep-chested cough. She put her
hands flat on the counter and tried to relax.
Sofía put a hot mug in front of Madeline. Steam infused with lemon and honey wafted to her. Sofía’s gentle hand brushed her shoulder. “For your breathing,” she said, and then she was off, cleaning the breakfast dishes.
“Thank you,” Madeline muttered. Sofía had a way of smoothing everything over in this house. The drink was warm and soothing, and Madeline told herself it worked, but reflecting on the conversation with her mom made her angry. There was no way one of her friends had told her mom anything about the breakup. Most of her friends barely checked on her now. It was hard to be friends with the dying girl. Oh, they responded to texts. Most of them did, anyway. But she couldn’t imagine any of them sitting down with her mom to talk about Madeline’s dating life. Or lack thereof. What did her mom know about Darius, anyway? Next to nothing. Madeline had dated him for over a year, and her mom hadn’t shown a moment’s interest. Now she was setting up a car pool with him? Whatever she was up to, it was infuriating.
Madeline’s backpack was by the door. Probably also Sofía’s doing. Everyone treated her like an invalid, which she basically was, but it still made her angry. Her mom made her angry. Embracing reality made her angry. She should stay home—that was reality. She shouldn’t wander in the garden alone—that was reality. She shouldn’t have a boyfriend—that was reality. It wasn’t fair to Darius to ask him to walk this road with her, wasn’t fair to keep him tied to her, like an anchor. Breaking up with him had been an act of love, a way to set him free from her illness, and now her mom was trying to undo that.
She waited by the door so Darius wouldn’t have an excuse to come in. His beat-up black Mustang pulled into the driveway, and he jumped out to come get her at the door. He moved like an ice skater, the ground rolling away beneath him like a moving walkway. Today he wore jeans and a button-down shirt, with his letterman’s jacket tossed over it. She knew the buttoned shirt was for her. She had told him on their first date that wearing something other than a T-shirt might show he was at least a little bit excited.
She had met Darius in track. He was beautiful, with dark skin and an angular face. He kept his hair short—she could tell he had probably shaved it the night before—and when he smiled it was like the sun rising. That wasn’t the reason she had started dating him, though. It was because of the day she’d turned her ankle during track and he had noticed and turned back for her. She’d told him to keep running, it was no big deal, she was alright. He’d told her they were a team and he needed a breather anyway. He’d walked beside her, gotten her back to the coach, stayed there while they put on the ice, made sure she was okay, and checked in with her the next day. After that, he was checking in on her every day. It started with the ankle, but from there he wanted to know how she was doing in class, with her parents, her friends, with life in general, and pretty soon they were texting, calling, laughing, deep into each other’s lives. She asked him about his cousin Malik, who was away at college. Darius helped her think through how to respond to her parents when they were being difficult.
And when her breathing trouble started, and her mom took her to the doctor, Darius offered to come. Madeline’s mom said no, that it wasn’t right for “a stranger” to come to a doctor’s appointment, and anyway, it was probably just a little infection. But when she and her mom came out into the hospital parking lot after the appointment, Darius was leaning against his car, reading a book, his cell phone in hand. He grinned and put the phone to his ear. Call me.
Saying good-bye had been hard. It was the right thing to do, but it was impossible, and now here he was, on her front porch, beaming. He reached for her backpack.
Madeline flinched away. “I’m not broken.” She winced. She hadn’t meant to come across like that, but seeing him here . . . There was a gravity there, a desire to come back together, and she couldn’t allow that. It would be too hard on him, too painful for her.
“I know,” he said, and bowed with a flourish. “But I . . . am a gentleman.”
She smiled despite herself. She debated for a moment, then unslung her bag and let him carry it. “How’s your breathing?” he asked, once they were settled in the Mustang and he was backing toward the road.
“Terrible. How did Mom get your number?”
He shrugged. “How does your mom always get whatever she wants? Called the principal maybe.” He tapped his hands against the driver’s wheel. “Listen, has your mom told you she’s been calling me the last month or so?”
“What?! No!”
He raised a hand. “Don’t be mad, she’s just worried. Ever since you . . . uh . . . Since we broke up.” He glanced at her, then back to the road. “Worried that you’ve given up.”
Madeline watched the neighborhood spin past. Her parents had made it clear they didn’t like Darius. What they hadn’t made clear was why. Dad said he wouldn’t make enough money, but that was years away, and what did he know? She and Darius were getting the same education, after all. He had grades nearly as good as hers, and if she wasn’t in honors classes, his GPA might even be higher than hers. She didn’t know if it was because they were both seventeen, or because Darius was black, or because he was at her private high school on a scholarship, but something about him didn’t meet Mom and Dad’s approval. And now Mom was texting him to check up on her? She gritted her teeth. Mom would hear about this when she got home.
And “worried that she had given up”? She hadn’t given up—she was embracing reality. That was part of the stages of terminal disease, right? She had gone through denial. Through anger (well, maybe not all the way through). Now she was approaching acceptance. There was nothing more to be done. No more treatments, no miracle cures. She was walking a path her parents couldn’t go down, not really. She was alone, and no one else needed to suffer this with her: not her parents, not her friends, and certainly not Darius.
She turned his radio up and kept it loud until they got to school. Darius, without even asking, pulled up alongside her classroom instead of parking in the lot. So she wouldn’t have to walk so far, of course. She didn’t know how to explain to him how infuriating she found his thoughtfulness. Especially when she was already mad at him. She knew it wasn’t his fault—everything made her angry—and she knew he wouldn’t understand if she tried to explain.
The car chugged to a stop, and the radio fell silent. Darius stared out the windshield. She knew that look. He was gathering his thoughts, trying to find words. She put her hand on the door handle, but despite herself, she paused. She missed hearing his voice. Missed talking about life, about things that mattered. “Maddie,” he said. She melted a little at that. She had missed hearing the way he said her name. “I got you something.”
He held a package wrapped in brown paper. He’d never been great at wrapping gifts, and this one was no exception: too much paper crookedly cut, with tape all over it and an attempt at a bow made with twine. It was obviously a book. She couldn’t take a gift, though. It wasn’t fair to him. Or to her, really. “Darius—”
“I bought it before we broke up, but it just got here. Shipped from England.” She didn’t say anything. “I know you’re going to love this, and I want you to have it.” He held it out. When she took it, their fingers brushed against each other.
Madeline pulled the tape loose and slid the book out. “Darius. I can’t believe this.”
It was a copy of her favorite book, The Gryphon under the Stairs by Mary Patricia Wall. It was the first of the Tales of Meselia, a series of children’s fantasy novels. The final novel had never come out, so it wasn’t as popular as other series, and not as easy to find, but Madeline loved it best. Darius had never read the Meselia books until she got sick. He had come to her house, sat on the floor while she curled on the couch, and read aloud the whole series, a couple chapters at a time. It had taken months to get to the end. She had loved seeing the books through his eyes, listening to him talk about them, hearing his thoughts and questions and insights.
�
�First edition,” Darius said proudly. “Hardback, too.”
She ran her hand over the cover. It had been released in 1974, and the picture on the front was of a gryphon crouched under a stairway, two children standing to the sides, stepping back in surprise. Ivy grew up around the outside of the picture, and the whole illustration had the look of a wood-block print.
Her anger drained away. She couldn’t believe it. She had always wanted a first edition, though she had never mentioned it to anyone, not even Darius. Holding it in her hand now, feeling the texture of the cover, the weight of the book, seemed almost miraculous . . . like maybe things that were impossible could happen. She didn’t know what to say. She settled for “Darius, thank you so much.” Then, before the emotion choked off her words, she asked, “Where did you find this?”
He grinned. “I started calling bookshops in the UK. Little places that didn’t put their books online.”
She flipped open the book, shocked by the crispness of the pages. “It looks like no one has ever read this copy,” she said. “Like it’s untouched by human hands.”
“Nah,” Darius said. “Look at the title page.”
She looked from him to the book, then back at him. It couldn’t be. She turned the first page, a blank one, and there it was. The name Mary Patricia Wall was written in a neat, curved script in black ink, just beneath her typeset name. Mary Patricia Wall had held this book in her hands, had put her fingers on these pages to keep them open.
Tears cascaded down her face, and she couldn’t keep away from Darius anymore, couldn’t pretend, even for his own good, that she didn’t want to be with him. She let his gravity pull her in, leaning into his embrace, and he didn’t say anything, didn’t ask for anything, just wrapped his arms around her and let her cry. She cried for his thoughtfulness, for thankfulness to have someone who knew her so well, for fear of what was to come. She cried because she was angry and sad and afraid and loved and so, so tired. There was no way out, no solution to her illness, but at least there was this, a moment of loving human touch, a gift from someone who knew her well.
The Crescent Stone Page 2