by Kevin Henkes
“Life is a sweet, sad mystery,” said Mrs. O’Brien, moving toward the bed. “And you are the least weird person I know.” She kissed the top of Amelia’s head and was gone.
Alone (with Dr. Cotton), under the patchwork quilt, in the moonless dark, the sweet, sad mystery of life seemed impossible to comprehend.
Once, a long time ago, Mrs. O’Brien had told Amelia about her husband. How he had died of cancer when they were newly married. How she’d always wanted children, but never had any. How her husband’s death had bonded her with Amelia’s father.
Amelia had been too young to mourn her mother’s death. She hadn’t experienced the death of a loved one the way her father and Mrs. O’Brien had.
But maybe she was now. In a way. Losing Epiphany felt like a death, as if Amelia’s mother were dying again. There’d been an opening in Amelia’s life and her mother’s spirit had entered, come back for a second chance. And, now, the opening had closed.
Amelia sank into the bed. She tried to get comfortable, to let go, to get to the fuzzy edge of sleep. The mattress, like a giant marshmallow, rose up around her, swallowed her. Suddenly, despite everything, she felt more tired than ever.
Sleep, at home, would have been difficult. But sleep at Mrs. O’Brien’s, in the big bed, was possible. Like sailing off in a soft, safe boat—on to tomorrow, to morning, to the inevitable talk with her father.
26 • A Barrage of Questions
Amelia woke early, emerging from a dream that was nearly beyond her grasp. All she could remember was that Epiphany was in it. “Hannah Barnes,” Amelia whispered. “Her name is Hannah Barnes.”
As the dream slipped away, a question materialized out of the morning air. It came unbidden as Amelia stretched under the covers, and was still nagging at her when she went home.
The question: Was Hannah Barnes following me?
And then another question: Why?
When Amelia came out of her bedroom after putting her backpack and Dr. Cotton away, her father was in the hallway, waiting.
“Good morning,” said her father.
“Hi.”
“Is this a good time for you?”
Amelia nodded.
“Let’s go down to the kitchen,” said her father.
Amelia followed him.
“How was it? Sleeping at Mrs. O’Brien’s?” he asked over his shoulder.
“It was good. Fine.”
Going down the stairs, Amelia was right behind her father. She tried to match his footsteps, making a game out of it. If we’re in perfect rhythm, she thought, we’ll have an okay talk. If not . . .
When they entered the kitchen, Mrs. O’Brien, who’d been rinsing something in the sink, left without a word.
“Did you eat?” her father asked.
Amelia nodded.
“Well,” her father began. He stood behind one of the chairs, grasping it tightly. Amelia imagined him standing behind her, squeezing her shoulders. “Well,” he said again.
Amelia looked at her hands and said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
The house seemed especially quiet. The morning sun made a pool of light on the table between them and coins of light on the wall.
After clearing his throat, her father said, “I think Mrs. O’Brien explained the situation. Am I right?”
“Well, sort of.”
“Do you have any questions?”
Of course, she had questions. But she wanted him to be the parent, to explain things himself, to make things so clear that, perhaps, she wouldn’t have questions. “This is our talk?” she wanted to say. But she didn’t.
She looked at him and looked away. Looked at him and looked away. He reminded her of a self-portrait of Vincent van Gogh she’d seen in Chicago on a school trip. A trim beard. An orange mustache like a giant frown. Piercing eyes. A high forehead and a prominent brow. A certain gruffness.
“Why didn’t you tell me about her?” she asked. “You never tell me anything.”
“I didn’t think there was anything to tell.”
“But there was. Is.”
“It’s not easy for me to talk about certain things,” he told her, looking remote as an unknown star. “You know that.” His discomfort showed in his eyes and in the way his shoulders drooped. There were more, frequent throat clearings, and then he said, “I’m sorry,” with a gentleness that seemed clumsy, even cautious.
The apology made a crack and she wanted to slip in a question before her sudden urge to be brave—a flicker—disappeared.
“I do have a question,” she said.
“All right.”
“Is it possible that the woman on the porch—”
“Hannah,” said her father.
“Hannah,” Amelia repeated. “Is it possible that Hannah—” She wanted to say was following me?, but she couldn’t get the words out. Already the flicker had passed; her bravery had vanished.
She held back, changed course. Maybe it was better to keep this to herself. Her father wasn’t good at this kind of thing—talking openly—and, therefore, neither was she. So, she said, “Um, is she nice? Do you like her? Can I meet her?”
“That’s a barrage of questions,” he replied. He laughed. And after he laughed there was a change. You could almost see him thinking, the wheels turning. His grip on the chair loosened and so did his face. He blinked a few times, then winked at her. “Yes, yes, and yes,” he said. “Now, remember,” he added, “I don’t know if there’s a future with this relationship. Frankly, I’m not quite sure where we stand at the moment.” He paused. “I don’t want to upset you.”
“Maybe I’ll like her. You can’t say something will upset me if I don’t know anything about it.” The bravery had returned. Just a little. “You can’t use me as an excuse,” she told him.
“Life is opera, isn’t it? If you look at it a particular way, in a certain light.” He sounded like a book, as he often did. “Well, then,” he said, backing out of the room. “Here we are. I guess that’s that.”
Nothing was resolved. There was a vagueness to their discussion, and yet, Amelia felt relieved. There’d been a heaviness in her chest and it was gone for now.
Here we are, she thought. Here we are.
Where exactly?
She wasn’t sure.
27 • Sweeping
“What happened?” asked Amelia.
“There’s been a little accident,” said Louise.
The floor of the studio was littered with pieces of clay.
“Is that Casey’s Eiffel Tower?” asked Amelia.
“Was,” said Louise. “Yes.”
“What happened?” Amelia asked again.
“Careful,” said Louise, avoiding the question. “Watch your step.” She was sweeping the pieces into a pile.
“Can I help?” asked Amelia.
“Sure. Grab the dustpan.”
They worked together—Louise sweeping from one side of the room to the other, Amelia holding the dustpan and then dumping the clay pieces into the garbage can.
Among the fragments of the Eiffel Tower, Amelia saw pieces of Casey’s heart. She guessed that neither of them—the tower nor the heart—had been dropped. They looked as if they’d been deliberately smashed, broken to bits.
“Where’s Casey?” asked Amelia. She held her breath.
Louise stared at the broom, looking thoughtful for a second. “He said he was going to walk around the block. He should be back any minute. He needed to cool off.”
“Is he okay?”
“I hope so.”
They worked silently. After a few minutes, Louise leaned the broom against the wall. “I’m going to see if I can find him. I’ll be right back.”
Amelia grabbed the broom and finished sweeping the floor. She noticed a piece of clay in the far corner that was bigger than most of the others. It was from Casey’s heart, and it had her initial carved into it—a slightly crooked capital A. She picked it up and shoved it into her pocket.
She was still
processing her talk with her father, and now she had this to think about. She’d come to the clay studio eager to make more rabbits and to tell Casey about Epiphany aka Hannah Barnes.
She’d wondered what Casey would think about the new information, what he would say. Now she wondered what had happened to the Eiffel Tower and to his heart and to him.
Life, she thought, just keeps coming at you, one big shapeless surprise after the other. Again. Again.
When, minutes later, Louise and Casey came through the front door, Amelia could tell that Casey had been crying. His eyes were red and his cheeks looked raw as if they’d been scratched or scribbled on with a crayon.
“Thank you for cleaning up, Amelia,” said Louise. “I’m going down to check the kiln.” She gave Casey a long look and patted his shoulder. “You know where I am if you need me,” she said as she left.
After a little silence, for the third time that morning, Amelia asked, “What happened?”
“My parents are marriage retreat dropouts,” said Casey. “Failures. They’re on their way home. They’re picking me up today. ‘We need to talk,’ my mom said. ‘We need to work out a plan.’” He shrugged and turned away, looking out the window for several seconds. “They’re going to get divorced.”
“That’s awful,” said Amelia. “I’m sorry.” Now she understood why the Eiffel Tower had been in pieces on the floor. She inched closer to Casey. He was blinking. Blinking back tears, she thought.
“When I found out, I smashed the Eiffel Tower and the heart,” he said. He shrugged and blinked again. “I wanted to smash everything,” he added, his voice squeaky.
Amelia didn’t know what to say.
“At least you still have Epiphany,” said Casey.
“Well, no, I don’t,” said Amelia. “More bad news.”
“What?”
“As it turns out, Epiphany is not my mother,” Amelia began tentatively.
Casey tilted his head and seemed to shrink. He looked as if he might collapse under some invisible weight, under the strain of more disappointment. He almost looked angry. “How do you know?”
“She came to my house. I saw her on my porch. She was talking to my dad.”
“What?”
“She’s my dad’s girlfriend. Sort of. Who, apparently, looks like my mother. I haven’t yet, but I guess I’m going to meet her.”
Casey’s mouth made a circle, then thinned to a line. “But why was she by the clay studio and the coffee shop, like she was looking for you?”
“I don’t know.” Amelia shrugged. “I have to figure that out.”
“Will you call her Epiphany?”
“No. Her name’s Hannah. Hannah Barnes.”
“I like Epiphany better,” said Casey. He spotted a shard under a chair. He picked it up and threw it away. “I think my aunt is going to be finding those for months.” He nudged the garbage can with his foot and gave it a little kick. “Hey, maybe you’ll call her Mom.”
“I don’t think so,” said Amelia. She had the sudden urge to shout: I will never have a mother—she’s dead—and, to top it all off, my father never tells me anything. “Not likely,” she said. “No.”
Casey sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Then he looked right at Amelia and said, “You’re lucky. Life is so unfair. I have divorce in my future, and you have a wedding in yours.”
The comment startled Amelia into silence.
They were both entering uncharted territory as far as parents were concerned. Her mind raced forward, a crazy rush of improbable, pointless possibilities, but there was nothing she could think of to say.
28 • Gone
How do you say goodbye?
Amelia didn’t think she’d done it well.
Casey’s parents showed up at the studio and Amelia got a glimpse of his life—a life that had nothing to do with her. As his parents slipped back into his world, Amelia slipped out of it. It wasn’t a pleasant reunion. Casey rejected hugs from both his parents, standing rigid with an expressionless face. A face as blank as could be. Feeling like an intruder, Amelia whispered goodbye and awkwardly edged away with a gentle wave.
And just like that, Casey was gone, or rather, she was gone. And the sadness Amelia was left with was profound, because she had a feeling she might never see him again.
Throughout the afternoon, Amelia had the sensation that Casey had fallen through a trapdoor, and after dinner, when her father went to his study, she asked Mrs. O’Brien if she’d stay longer than usual to play cards because she wanted to be with someone. She didn’t want to be alone to wallow in her sadness. The stillness of the house at night made the sadness worse.
The kitchen was full of shadows, but at the table beneath the overhead lamp, Amelia and Mrs. O’Brien were enclosed by a circle of yellow light. The moon out the window was like a curl of neon—a bright flourish in the solemn darkness.
They played double solitaire. Between games, as they shuffled their cards, Mrs. O’Brien said, in a hushed voice, “You poor thing. From what you’ve told me, today was quite a day.”
Amelia nodded. “It was.”
“Maybe the boy—Casey—will come back soon.”
“Or maybe I’ll never see him again. The look on his face . . . He was so upset. . . .” Amelia wondered where Casey was at this very moment. Was he with both his parents? She wondered how the rest of the week would be without him. Lonely. That’s how it would be.
Mrs. O’Brien started setting up her cards for another game. “I have a feeling you’ll hear from him,” she said. “And, you always have Louise to keep you up-to-date.”
“I guess,” said Amelia.
The only sound was the rhythmic, soothing snap-snap-snap of the cards until Mrs. O’Brien asked, “What are you thinking about Hannah Barnes?”
The question surprised Amelia. She gripped her cards so tightly her hand hurt. She imagined the ghost of her mother whispering a proper answer in her ear. But her mother, Epiphany, and Hannah Barnes had become a confusing, complicated combination, a wispy presence she might never pin down clearly again. “Actually, I’m thinking that I’d like to meet her.”
“Your father said that was possible, right?”
“He did, but you know him. If I don’t remind him a million times, nothing will happen.”
“Do you want me to say something to him?”
Amelia’s fingers flickered across the tabletop as if she were working some magic over her cards, over her life. “Would you?”
“Of course,” Mrs. O’Brien said firmly. “I’ll be your go-between. Maybe dinner would be nice. Not at a restaurant. Here. I could cook.”
“Yes,” said Amelia. “Then you’d be around if I needed you.” I’ll always need you, she thought.
Mrs. O’Brien tapped her cards on the table. Amelia couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Her face gave nothing away.
“Are you ready?” asked Mrs. O’Brien lightly, lifting the burden of the day. “Let’s play.”
29 • A Letter and a Cake
That night Amelia fell asleep quickly, as if under a spell. And she slept deeply. And she slept late. When she woke it was almost noon.
Louise called to say that Casey was back at his house and fine and that Amelia should come to the clay studio.
But Amelia stayed home. She stayed near Mrs. O’Brien all day. They cleaned the living room windows. They reorganized the refrigerator. They baked a chocolate cake with buttercream frosting for no special occasion. “Just because,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “Just because.”
When the mail arrived, there was a letter from France, from Natalie. It came exactly when Amelia needed it most.
Dear Amelia,
I miss you!
I’m sorry I haven’t written in such a long time. We were in Paris last week, which was fabulous, except the place we stayed was so small that Hope and I had to share a room the size of a shoebox. She’s driving me crazy. Were we so annoying when we were six? Sometimes I think you’re lucky being
an only child. I got you a beautiful silver dish at a flea market. It’s shaped like a clamshell. I’ll bring it when we come home. Did I say I miss you?
Love,
Natalie
P.S. The real reason I wrote this letter (which I never mentioned in the letter) was to say that I hope we’re still best friends.
Amelia read the letter so many times she practically knew it by heart. She couldn’t believe that Natalie had been thinking the same thing she’d been thinking, that she’d doubted their friendship.
Amelia wanted to write Natalie the perfect letter in return. Most important, she’d confirm their friendship. But she would also tell her about Casey and Hannah Barnes. She realized how much her life had changed since Natalie’s family had gone to France.
Amelia went to her room to get paper and an envelope. When she reappeared in the kitchen, Mrs. O’Brien said, “Well, as my grandmother used to say, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’”
“What?” asked Amelia.
Mrs. O’Brien tugged at her shirt, then smoothed it. She fingered the pearls around her neck. “Hannah Barnes is coming for dinner tonight.”
“She is?”
“She is.”
“How do you know?”
“Your father just called. I’d asked him about it this morning before he left for his office. I didn’t expect him to respond this quickly.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “I’m glad we made our cake.”
“Should we decorate it?” asked Amelia.
“Yes,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “Good idea.”
They mixed green and yellow frosting, and Mrs. O’Brien helped Amelia pipe delicate yellow flowers and buds atop curly green stems. The cake had looked perfectly nice and unfussy before, but now it was beautiful. It had been transformed.
Amelia was adding a finishing touch—a pattern of yellow dots around the sides. “What do you think I should wear?”
“Whatever you want,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “What you have on is fine.”