Diamond Willow

by Helen Frost

  He waits for me to say more, but I don’t, and neither

  does he, and neither does Mom, for a long time.

  Silence stalks around us like a cat. Even Zanna

  doesn’t chatter it into pieces. I look around

  at these five people and at the beautiful

  dog we love. I take a deep breath.

  Will you listen to me? I ask.

  Much to my surprise,

  they do. Let me tell

  you, I begin,

  why I love

  Roxy.

  In

  case you

  haven’t noticed,

  I say, I’m not exactly

  Miss Popularity. (They could

  try to act surprised, but never mind.)

  In fact, I only have one friend, and now

  it looks like she likes a boy better than me,

  so Roxy might be my best friend. I know that

  may sound a little pathetic, but Roxy is always

  glad to see me. I count on her. I want to take care

  of her, and I know I might need a little help—a lot

  of help—from you guys. I know it’s true that it’s my

  fault she’s blind, and maybe you think a friend would

  not want to let someone suffer like this, but she could

  get better! Maybe the vet is wrong; maybe Roxy won’t

  be blind forever. Even if she is blind, she’s still Roxy.

  It’s probably the longest speech I have ever made.

  I’m amazed: they all listen right to the end. They

  actually seem to be thinking about what I said.

  Zanna walks right up to Roxy and holds out

  her hand for Roxy to sniff; Roxy licks

  Zanna’s hand, and Zanna pats her

  on the head and grins. Then she

  comes over to me, gives me

  a long, serious look,

  and says, Willow,

  can I be your

  friend,

  too?

  We

  all say

  what we love

  about Roxy. Dad says,

  She always seems to know what I

  expect, like she can listen to my thoughts.

  Mom says, Roxy came to us when we were sad

  and brought her happiness to us. Grandma looks

  at Mom like she’s waiting for her to go on, but Mom

  stops at that, and Grandma says, Roxy has always been

  gentle with children. Zanna thinks about that, then says,

  I’m not as scared of her as I used to be before, when she

  could see. Grandpa listens to everyone, holding Roxy’s

  head in his lap, stroking her ears. I’ve been thinking,

  he says. He looks at me. He looks at Mom and Dad.

  Maybe it’s time for us to tell Willow—he pauses

  just a split second, like I do sometimes

  when I’m not sure if I should say

  something I want to say,

  and then he finishes

  the most amazing

  sentence—about

  the other

  baby.

  Diamond, Willow’s twin sister (Roxy)

  Last night, when I slept beside Willow, curled next to her in the shelter under the tree, I recalled when we were together long ago.

  It was warm and dark. Something like a river pulsed through us and around us. We heard music. We heard voices. They were softer there than they are here. For a while, Willow and I moved together in a kind of dance—maybe it was then I learned to love to run, moving my arms and legs so freely. But we grew bigger; it became more difficult to move. Soon we could hardly move at all. It seemed the space closed in on us, tighter and tighter, until the day Willow left me there alone. I didn’t know where she had gone—it seemed like she just disappeared.

  And then I followed. For a while I didn’t know where Willow was. I was in a room with bright lights, loud noises, people moving everywhere, handing me from one person to another, laying me down, picking me up, washing me and wrapping me in blankets.

  Our parents held us in their arms and chose our names.

  Look how long and thin she is, and so strong—she won’t let go of my finger. They named my sister Willow.

  This one is so beautiful. Look at her bright eyes—she looks like she can see right through you. We will call her Diamond.

  It was only later that they gave both names to Willow.

  We need to run a few more tests.

  … twisted so she cannot eat or drink … inoperable … nothing we can do …

  … four or five days if we keep her here … no more than two days if you take her home.

  We will take both our babies home.

  Three days in the hospital, one day and night at home. That’s all I knew of being human.

  An airplane ride, cradled in my father’s arms, Willow in our mother’s arms beside us.

  Cool air against my face.

  The smell of spruce trees.

  An open door. A woodstove with a chair beside it. Grandma sitting in it, rocking. They put me in her arms. She looked at me and told a riddle: I see a dewdrop shining at the center of a rose.

  Grandpa whispered, You’ll be back. I’ll watch for you.

  Marty was six years old. He kissed my hair, and asked, Why, Mommy? She looks perfect. They let him hold me in his little arms, and he looked at me so deeply, I wondered later, when he held me as a puppy and looked at me that same way, if he might recognize me. I’m certain no one else does. Not even Grandpa.

  That one night in their house, I slept beside Willow. They covered us with a soft yellow blanket and they all sat beside our crib. Our father played a long, slow song on his guitar. Our mother sang to us. Our brother reached into the crib and held our tiny hands. The room grew dark. Through a window, red and green and purple lights shimmered in the sky. A beautiful half moon shone on our faces.

  I heard a wolf howl in the distance. Was it calling for me?

  I loved the world and everything I saw and smelled and heard. I wanted more than anything to stay.

  I went to sleep. Once I woke when Willow cried. Our mother picked her up and fed her, put her gently down.

  She picked me up. She checked to see if I was breathing. She put her ear against my heart. It was still beating. She held me for a long time, then kissed me and put me back with Willow. I went to sleep.

  In the morning, Willow woke, but I did not.

  I

  had

  a sister,

  a twin, not

  identical. (They say,

  She was so beautiful, as if that

  proves the point.) Why haven’t you

  told me this before? I ask. Long silence,

  before Mom answers, I’ve always planned

  to tell you. I know I’ve missed a few chances,

  but it’s hard to talk about her without crying,

  and I don’t like you to see me cry. Dad says,

  We’re so lucky to have you. I try not to think

  too much about what might have been.

  Grandma looks at Grandpa, who says,

  It was not our place to tell you.

  Zanna says, Don’t blame me,

  I didn’t know. Everyone

  laughs at that. Roxy

  gives a quick, sharp

  bark, as if to say,

  Hey, I’m here,

  too! I would

  have told,

  but who

  listens

  to a

  dog?

  Why

  are they

  telling me this

  today? When they

  were worrying about me

  last night, did it remind them

  of those four nights Diamond was alive?

  Or are they telling me that they know how it feels

  to love someone you can’t help, like I love Roxy now?

  It’s like walking through the kind of
deep snow where each step

  makes you break through the crust and sink down to your knees.

  After they tell me about Baby Diamond, I say, Whatever we

  decide about Roxy, I’ll always remember the day we all

  went to pick her out. Remember her intelligent

  clear eyes? (Will we ever see them again?)

  I say Whatever we decide, like it’s

  obvious to everyone: no matter

  what happens, I’m part of it

  as much as they are.

  Dad nods, Yes,

  he says, I do

  remember

  Roxy’s

  eyes

  that

  day.

  Roxy (Diamond)

  I like hearing Willow say she remembers my eyes from the day they brought me home. I remember her eyes that day, too.

  I was born to a malamute who had led her team through six Iditarods, winning one of them. We were so proud of that. All the puppies scrambled for attention, tumbling over each other to get our mother to notice us. Maybe we’d grow up to win races like she did.

  But there were too many of us in that dog yard. The musher put out word that she was selling puppies, and people started coming by. They’d look us over, ask a lot of questions, and sometimes leave with one of us. I figured out that if I tucked my head into my paws, closed my eyes, and pretended to sleep until they left, no one would notice me.

  So I was “sleeping” when I heard voices I remembered from way back in another life. I opened one eye and saw a big boy, a little girl, and a man and woman I thought I’d seen before. The woman was wearing a red jacket that she could barely close.

  I opened both eyes and watched them closely.

  Willow, look at this one, said the man. The whole family came and looked me over. I stared at Willow and she stared at me—a long, deep gaze. She got down on her knees and held me in her lap. I licked her face, and she looked up, eyes shining.

  Let’s take her home, Dad! Willow said.

  They brought me home and put fresh straw in my doghouse. They fed me well, and I was happy.

  Until the day they came home with the baby. When they took her inside their house, I wanted so much to go in with them, I started howling. I couldn’t stop for hours. Willow and Marty came out, bringing extra food and water. I ate and drank, and then I howled some more.

  Roxy, what’s wrong? they kept asking. But of course I couldn’t tell them.

  I couldn’t say, I want to be the baby, not that one you call Suzanna.

  That’s when Marty looked at me, that penetrating look that made me wonder if he knew me. All he said was, Maybe she’s jealous of the baby.

  Willow answered, Why—just because Mom and Dad sit around looking at her whenever they aren’t feeding her, talking about her, or giving her a bath?

  Marty laughed. Come on, he said, let’s hitch up Cora and I’ll take you for a ride in my new sled. Get away from Babyland for a while.

  I watched them, wishing I could ride in the sled with Willow, knowing my best hope was that maybe someday I could grow up and pull the sled with Cora.

  Once

  we start

  talking—really

  talking—it doesn’t take

  us long to decide to keep Roxy.

  Mom canceled the vet appointment

  when she saw I’d taken off. She said she

  and Dad were relieved that Roxy was alive—

  even while we were sick with worry about you.

  So maybe in a way I did help, just not the way I

  planned it. We all agree that Roxy should go home

  with us. I get her settled into Dad’s sled, hitched to

  the snowmachine. What about me? Zanna asks, and

  Dad hugs her and says, We want you to go with

  Willow, in her sled, Zanna. She thinks about it,

  then stands up tall and says, Okay, I’ll help

  my sister. So Mom rides with Roxy,

  and I take all five dogs and Zanna.

  We head home together and we

  stay together on the trail.

  We arrive without

  any trouble.

  Not one

  bit.

  When

  Marty heard that

  I was missing, he flew

  home to help look for me.

  By the time he got here, we

  were all back, but he’s staying

  an extra day anyway, and Mom

  is letting me miss a day of school

  to be with him. He stares at Roxy

  like she’s made of gold, then looks

  at me like I’m his equal. Hey—he

  puts his hand on my head—I think

  you’re taller, Willow. I smile. No,

  I say, I’m not; you must be shorter.

  He laughs. Marty always does this:

  laughs like he is really enjoying me,

  but with a look on his face like he

  understands that my joking has

  a serious side, and there’s

  more to me than

  most people

  see.

  I

  ask

  Marty

  why he’s never

  told me about Diamond.

  You were Zanna’s age when we

  were born—I know you must remember.

  (It’s weird to say that: we were born.) Marty

  answers, How do little kids learn all the things

  they’re not supposed to talk about? Poop and farts

  and sex, Uncle Henry’s drinking, Mom’s gray hair. He

  turns to look at me … And the other baby, those few days

  she lived, the birchbark box of Diamond’s ashes, scattered

  in a secret, sacred place. You were with us, he tells me.

  In my memory, you’re wide awake. Mom is carrying

  you, zipped up inside that red down jacket she wore

  when she was pregnant. I know the one he means;

  she wore it before Zanna was born; she still

  has it. Where? I ask him. Where is the

  secret, sacred place? Marty says,

  Come on, let’s hitch up Lucky,

  Cora, Samson, and Magoo.

  I still know the way.

  I’ll take you

  there.

  I

  love

  riding

  in the sled with

  Marty driving. New

  snow looks like diamonds …

  like ashes … like Diamond’s ashes …

  I’m daydreaming, looking around, so I don’t

  notice when Marty turns the dogs onto the old trail,

  the one Kaylie and I took by mistake when we got lost.

  When Marty stops the dogs, I look around. Could he know

  this is the exact spot where Kaylie and I camped out that night?

  Or could it be that maybe Cora remembers when we stopped here,

  and that’s why she stops now? But Marty says, This is the place. He looks

  around like he’s in church. This is the place they scattered Diamond’s ashes.

  Marty couldn’t have heard from Mom and Dad that this is where Kaylie and I

  camped. I haven’t told them. Way back then, Marty says, the spruce tree was

  much smaller. When they spread the ashes on its branches, it reminded me

  of falling snow. I blink. It was snow, I say, that kept us warm that night.

  Marty looks at me. What night? he asks. I tell him about camping

  here, and staying warm under the snowy branches of this tree.

  We see a spruce hen sitting on one of the low branches.

  Is it the same one I saw that night? It looks

  at me and doesn’t fly away. I say,

  Hi. Don’t I know you from

  somewhere? I almost

  hear it answer, Hello

  Willow. Yes, my

  dear, you

  do.
r />   My

  diamond

  willow stick

  is almost finished. I’m

  sanding each diamond one last time

  before I polish it, trying to figure out why

  Kaylie has so many friends and I don’t. Could it be

  because she’s happy all the time? Maybe. That would be

  kind of interesting, if being happy gets you friends and

  having friends makes you happy. I don’t want

  a million friends, just enough so that

  if one friend starts eating lunch

  with a boy, I don’t have to

  sit there all by myself.

  Tomorrow, I’ll go

  back to school.

  I wish I felt

  happier

  about

  that.

  Dad

  and I go with

  Marty to the airport

  and watch his plane take off.

  On the way home, I tell Dad about

  the coincidence, how Marty showed me

  their sacred place, and it was the same place I

  camped that night. Dad nods, then asks, Do you know

  why we picked that place to scatter Baby Diamond’s ashes?

  (Of course I don’t. I was six days old; no one ever told me.)

  That was where I found the diamond willow stick—the one

  you’re working on. So in a way, that place is where your

  name came from—your names. I’m not sure how I feel

  about them giving me both names. I ask Dad, Why

  does diamond willow have the diamond shapes?

  He thinks for a minute and answers, As I

  understand it, a diamond forms

  in the sapwood at a place

  of injury, or sickness,

  a place where a

  branch has

  fallen

  away.

  Cora (Willow’s great-grandfather’s sister)

  It looks like Roxy got herself back into the house, where she’s always wanted to be. I should try something like that, break a leg or something, see if they’ll take me inside, too. Sit by the fire like I used to, before they got the idea to hitch me up. Whose crazy idea was that, anyway, to take a mutt like me and try to make a sled dog out of me? Oh well, I did my best. I was a good leader when I was young, and I can still do it when I have to.

  I understand all their commands, and I usually follow them. They like that. But I’ve lived around here for a long, long time, and I know a thing or two. So sometimes I take them places they should go, even if it’s not what they’re telling me. A few days before the twin babies were born, I brought their father to the diamond willow grove. I knew how much he loved that beautiful, light-dark diamond willow wood. It makes a good strong stick you can hold on to when you’re walking up a long hill in the dark.