Mo Wren, Lost and Found

by Tricia Springstubb

  “Is everything ready for the opening?” Carmella asked. “Shawn and Homer have been working hard.”

  With a guilty twinge, Mo understood why Carmella was acting so cold and strange.

  “I’m sorry we’ve been hogging them,” she said. “And I haven’t come to visit. Homer fixed our washer, so I do the laundry at home now. It probably seems like we forgot all about you, but that’s not true!”

  Carmella waved her hand.

  “Don’t be silly, little wren. It’s time those two fellows stopped hiding out here. Way past time! The Wren House is the best thing that’s happened to Homer in years. He’ll take on other jobs now, wait and see. And Shawn came by to brag on what a huge help he is to your daddy. Also how he plans to win a blue ribbon at the science fair. Just between you and me, you’re the first person to ask him to be partners since kindergarten.”

  Carmella smiled, all the way this time, tiny candles lighting her eyes. “Think of all the good the Wren House has done, even before it opens! The world’s going to return the love—Carmella guarantees it.”

  “So you’re not mad at us?” Mo asked.

  Carmella shook her head, but then she sighed again. “You’ve been on my mind, though, sugar. You and that little talk we had about curses.” She patted the seat beside her. “Come here. Let me show you something.”

  She spread the book across their laps. It was a photo album, crammed with pictures of two girls growing up, page by page. One was tall and serious looking, the other small and always smiling. One girl’s eyes were dark as plums; the other’s, lit like stars. In every photo they stood or sat side by side, at a table or before a Christmas tree, in party dresses or Halloween costumes. You could just about hear someone telling them “Smile. Once more.” You could feel how proud that someone was of them both.

  “It’s you,” said Mo. “But who . . . is that your cousin?”

  “That’s my sister.”

  A black wind swept through Mo. Carmella had tricked her? But why? Why lie about wanting a sister when she had one?

  When Mo raised her eyes, she understood. Carmella’s face was etched with grief. Her sister—her sister must have . . . The million wishes she’d tossed into wishing wells or whispered to the stars—they’d all been wishes that her sister was still alive.

  “Look,” said Carmella. She paged back through the album, touching one photo after another. “See the space between us? That gap? Always there.”

  Mo saw it, a skinny canyon keeping them separate.

  “We never got along. Ever. She was terrible shy, and I was always a show-off. She was a good student, and I was always in trouble. It was like we existed to make each other miserable. We fought like crazy, night and day, even when we got older. After a while, we didn’t know what we were fighting over anymore, but neither of us could quit hurting the other one. It broke our mother’s heart. Mama was always trying to patch things up, but it didn’t do any good. She used to tell us that when we were grown, we’d find each other. She said she was just living for the day we made peace and began to appreciate each other.”

  It was so quiet, Mo could hear Carmella swallow. She could hear the sound of her own breathing.

  “But Mama died. One snowy night, she and my father were in an accident. They lived for a few days after, but then he died, and a few hours later, so did she.”

  “Your sister? Did she die then, too?”

  Carmella pulled in her chin and leveled a look at Mo. “My sister’s not dead, Mo. She lives across the river.”

  Mo let her head fall back against the seat. Relief, bewilderment, and something like anger whirled around inside her as if she were a blender.

  “You’d think losing our parents would finally bring us close.” Carmella touched a photo, tracing the space between her and her sister. “Instead, it made things much worse. We even fought there in the hospital. Neither one of us knew how to comfort the other, and that hurt so bad, we finally just stopped speaking. Contessa lives half an hour away, but it might as well be the moon. I only hope . . . I hope Mama can’t look down and see us.”

  Mo’s emotions whirled faster yet.

  “Your sister’s not dead,” she said. “That means . . . that means it’s not too late.”

  Carmella closed the album. She ran her hand over the cover. Someone tried the front door but gave up and walked away.

  “I wish you were right, little wren. But Contessa told me in no uncertain words—she’s happier with me out of her life. We’re lost to each other. Lost and not about to be found.”

  Inside Mo, the relief and confusion settled, but the anger kept on spinning.

  “You’re wrong!” she cried, and Carmella jumped as if she’d been pinched. “It doesn’t have to be like that!”

  “Sugar! You’re too young. You can’t understand.”

  “Yes. I can. When my mother . . . when she died, everyone on Fox Street was so upset, they were all so sad, Dottie couldn’t stand it. She wanted to cheer people up. ‘Don’t worry,’ she told everybody. ‘Our mother’s only a little bit dead.’ Like dying was the same as getting strep throat or . . . or having your tail break off. Like it was something that would get better, if you were just patient. She didn’t understand, not for a long time.”

  Carmella tried to put an arm around her, but now it was Mo’s turn to pull away.

  “Only it’s not! Dying’s for good! You can’t do anything about it!”

  Mo stopped. Her words hung on the air, like an announcement over a speaker. They echoed inside her, and sudden tears stung her eyes. Carmella was giving her a worried look, so Mo rubbed her eyes and plunged on.

  “But you . . . you could fix things with your sister. You could get her back!”

  Carmella shook her head, and it was like she shook all the light out of her eyes.

  “I’d never let my sister get lost from me!” Mo cried. “I mean, I might, but I’d always find her again. Always.”

  Carmella crossed the room and opened the door. By now Mo felt limp as a T-shirt fresh out of the washer. How could it be? For all the people Carmella had made happy, she couldn’t do it for her own self.

  “She’ll always be your sister,” Mo said. “She can act like she’s not, but she is. No matter what.”

  Bitterness twisted all the beauty from Carmella’s face.

  “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Mo said.

  “I know. You go on home now.”

  When Mo stepped onto the sidewalk, she heard the door lock behind her.

  Outside, the day had turned strange, warm in the middle but chilly on the edges, like a puddle starting to freeze. All those fleecy clouds had knit themselves together, blocking out the sun. Mo shivered. And then she remembered.

  Her sweatshirt! She’d left it in the bus shelter. Breaking into a run, Mo urged her legs past the hardware, then the Robin’s Egg. She dodged a woman walking four dogs at once; she turned the corner and ran past the Pit Stop. The park was in sight now, the shelter just visible through the screen of new leaves. The number eighteen was pulling up. A passenger stepped out of the shelter.

  Let it still be there! Don’t let them take it! In Mo’s head, the blue sweatshirt tumbled around, tangling with a pair of fuzzy yellow sleeves, knotting together. Blue and yellow, blue and yellow, they spun, the pearly buttons of the sweater surfacing and sinking.

  The passenger jumped aboard, and just as Mo ran up, the bus pulled away. She stood panting, trying not to breathe in the cloud of exhaust, afraid to look.

  As always, the orange plastic bench was empty. No person. No sweatshirt.

  Mo scoured the park, searching everywhere, in case someone had picked it up and dropped it. Under bushes, beside the swings. But it was no use.

  Peeled, that was how she felt. Like she’d lost some protective layer. First Carmella and then her favorite shirt, the two most comforting things in her life. She’d lost them both.

  The wind shook the trees, and Mo’s bare arms grew goose bumps. The a
nger she’d felt at Carmella died away, leaving behind regret. If only she’d found gentler, more helpful words, the way Carmella herself would have done! Mo had missed her chance to boomerang all that kindness.

  She rubbed her arms. A human being could feel peeled, just like a grape. She took one more turn around the park and then slowly walked home. Everywhere she looked, flyers for the Grand Opening rippled in the rising wind.

  The Curse, Part Four

  The next day, the day of the opening, the sky was still overcast and the air had a mean, untrustworthy feel. Up in her nest, the sparrow hunkered down. Mo hoped her babies wouldn’t hatch yet. It was no day to be small and featherless.

  With all his jobs done, Homer asked Mo if anything upstairs needed fixing. Carrying his toolbox, he followed her to her bedroom and examined her window. Pulling out a can, he sprayed all around the frame, then whittled away the old paint with a knife. At last he gave Mo the nod.

  “Let ’er rip,” he said.

  Bending her knees, she pushed. The window didn’t want to let go—nothing in this place could ever surrender without a big fuss!

  “Try again,” said Homer. “Grunt this time.”

  “Grrr . . . unt!” Mo felt it giving way, gradually then all at once. Hallelujah! The window defied gravity and rocketed up. Fresh air rushed in for the first time in years. You could just about hear the room taking deep gulps of it.

  “It’s getting cold out there,” said Homer, repacking his tools. “Better close it.”

  But not yet. Mo stretched her arms out. The sidewalk tree was so close. If it grew a little fatter, and her arms a little longer, she’d be able to touch it.

  The phone jangled. It was Mercedes.

  “Tonight?” she said when she heard the news. “I wish I was there!”

  “Me too,” said Mo.

  Mo carried the phone downstairs, where all the lights were on. Their brightness made the dining- room walls look paler, more than ever like moonbeams. Behind the bar, the glasses twinkled like a tiny galaxy. Mo stood back, surveying their work. If you thought of the glossy green floor as Earth, they’d created their own little tilting planet, complete with moon and stars.

  “Everything’s ready,” Mo said.

  They’d set the tables with the new silverware. Inside every water glass, Mo had tucked a napkin folded into a fan, the way Daisy had taught her. Her father was in the kitchen, singing as he sliced onions. Even though Mo still didn’t like meat loaf, its baking made the air smell homey. Pretty soon Daisy and Kelvin the bartender would report for duty.

  “It’s not snowing, is it?” asked Mercedes.

  “Snowing!” Mo laughed. “In May?”

  “Da always checks the Cleveland weather, and she said something about a freak blizzard.”

  Mo cracked the front door. Outside, the temperature had dropped some more, and the air had a hollow-eggshell feel. She shut the door quickly.

  “She’s at her bridge club. It’s all working out, Mo! Three-C found her this really excellent physical therapist, and now she goes up and down stairs, and she sleeps in the room next to me. Monette’s so much calmer now. Yesterday we got a pink sweater in the mail from Grandma Steinbott. What if it’s a boy? Monette won’t have the test, because Three-C wants to be surprised. Can you believe how primitive?”

  The door opened and in blew Shawn, rubbing his hands together and puffing his cheeks.

  “Something’s weird out there,” he said.

  “Who’s that?” asked Mercedes.

  “Just Shawn.”

  “Yo!” He leaned into the phone, smelling like winter. “Yo, Megan?” Mo pushed him away.

  “Merce, I better go.”

  “Shawn who?”

  “Nobody! I really have to—”

  “Wait. I know it’s bad timing. But you and I always swore never to keep secrets from each other.”

  Mo heard her best friend inhale.

  “I lost my plum pit,” Mercedes said.

  “Your plum pit.”

  “I’m sorry! Maybe one of the cleaning people threw it out, I don’t know. I can’t find it anyplace. I was going to tell you at Da’s, but I didn’t. Now it’s almost spring, and I keep thinking you’ll call and say the time has come and let’s fulfill our pact and . . .”

  Mo stared at the window. By now it had grown so dark outside, all she could see was her own reflection. The plum pit. Guiltily, she realized she hadn’t given it a thought since she’d visited Fox Street. She had forgotten all about it.

  “I could’ve gotten another plum at the store. But I’d never lie to you.” Mercedes sighed. “You probably have yours in some sacred place where nothing can happen to it.”

  “I do. But it’s okay, Merce.”

  “It was just a symbol, right? You never really lose the stuff you love, right? Isn’t that what you told Da? It stays with you, like the moon or something? Da can’t wait for you to come visit this summer, Mo. The other day we were talking about you and she said you’re an excellent scout. What’s that supposed to mean? Did you join Girl Scouts?”

  “No. I . . .”

  “Is Shawn cute? Oh, never mind, you’ve got to go. I really wish I could be there tonight! I’d order the Mojo!”

  “Bye, Merce.”

  “Bye, Mo.”

  No sooner did she click off than the phone rang again, and this time it was Daisy, the waitress, calling from her apartment.

  “Lake effect, schmake effect, this ain’t natural,” she said. “Crud! If only I’d bought those snow tires when I had the cash! Tell your father I’ll be there soon as I can.”

  A steely curtain hung across the sky, letting in only a thin crack of light along the hem. Mo could hear her father in the kitchen, belting out “All You Need Is Love.”

  “Shawn, it can’t snow in May, can it?”

  “Believe it or not,” he said.

  He strolled around the room, admiring the napkins and sports posters. In the new bathroom, he flushed the toilet and activated the hand dryer, proud as if he’d built the place from scratch.

  “I think we did it,” he said at last.

  “What?”

  “Busted the curse.”

  “Yeoww!”

  A tortured yowl split the air.

  The You-Know-What, Part Five

  Mr. Wren was swearing like a star contestant in an inappropriate-word contest. When Mo and Shawn ran into the kitchen, he gritted his teeth but stayed bent in two, as if bowing to an audience.

  “Daddy! What happened?”

  He tried to straighten up but instead let out another yowl.

  “Need. To. Lie. Down.”

  Getting him up the stairs was like climbing Mount Everest with a hundred-year-old man. Mr. Wren inched himself down onto his bed.

  “Asrin,” he said through clenched teeth. “Eating ad.”

  Dottie came running with a blanket and heating pad. Mo fetched water and ibuprofen.

  “I’ll . . . yow! . . . be okay.” His eyes sank shut, then flew back open. “The meat loaves! Mo, make sure they don’t burn.”

  “Okay. Just rest, Daddy. Don’t worry.”

  Don’t worry.

  Back downstairs, Kelvin was letting himself in the back door. He stomped his feet and shook his head.

  “This beats all,” he said. “Where’s the boss?”

  “He hurt his back.”

  Kelvin gave the unsliced onions, unpeeled potatoes, and unwashed lettuce the once-over.

  “Daisy?”

  “She’s going to be late.”

  He looked from Mo to Shawn, as alarmed as if someone had told him he had to walk to California.

  “My father will be down soon.” Mo pulled on two giant mitts and opened the oven door. Heat blasted her face. The meat loaves sizzled, but she couldn’t tell if they were done or not. Probably it was better to overcook meat than take a chance on serving it undercooked. Hadn’t one of the old owners served bad meat and made people sick? Though when it came to burgers, her father
said a touch of pinkness was essential. She slammed the oven.

  “Bad luck comes in threes,” Kelvin said. “We’ve got the storm, your father, and Daisy. Things should start looking up any minute.” With a dubious smile, he went into the dining room.

  Dottie came in wearing the only dress she owned. She must have grown since last time she’d put it on, because Mo could see how it pinched her armpits and bit her waist. Dottie had squeezed into it anyway, so she could be a proper hostess.

  “Daddy doesn’t look so good. His face is like this.” She pulled her eyes down at the corners and gritted her teeth.

  The wind whistled around the corner of the building. Through the window, they saw the snow beginning to fall.

  “Check it out!” Shawn’s voice was hushed. In slow motion, like Handsome on the hunt, he extended his wrist. “It stopped,” he said. “Time has stopped all over the world.”

  The three of them stared at the petrified face of his beloved watch. Dottie gave it a tap. Nothing.

  “The you-know-what,” he whispered. “It’s back.”

  Dottie grabbed Mo’s oven mitts and pressed them to her ears. “I can’t hear you!” she shouted. “La la la!” She spun around, knocking into a big bag of potatoes and sending them rolling across the floor.

  “Hey!” Mo grabbed her arm. “I need you to help, not make trouble!”

  “Let’s use indoor voices.” Dottie smoothed her too-short skirt. “And remember, there is no I in ‘team.’” Picking up a potato peeler, she asked Shawn, “How does this thing work?”

  In the dining room, Kelvin was setting up the bar. On TV, the weather lady warned motorists to stay off the roads until midnight. Mo hurried out into the hall and pushed through the PRIVATE door.

  Upstairs, Mr. Wren hadn’t moved. His face was the color of ashes.

  “All the time I worked for the flippin’ water department, my back never gave out!”

  Mo had never seen her father like this. Angry, frustrated, in a rotten mood, his thumb whacked or his hand burned—but never like this. He’d been cut down, the earth gone right out from under him.