I take a shaky breath and try again. C chord. G chord. F chord … fail. The strings crash together with wrong notes.
The corners of my eyes are getting hot and prickly.
Maybe I’m not a real guitar player anymore. Maybe Dad leaving has taken the music out of me. Maybe I’ll never get it back, and this aching sadness will never come out.
Believe, I hear Grammy saying.
I shake my head and play again. More slowly this time. C chord. G chord. Pause.
Jane puts her hand on my shoulder and gives me one short squeeze.
And then the magic happens.
Real, actual, true Everyday Magic.
I stretch my left hand as wide and flat as it will go. Pressing my pointer finger tight against all the strings, I play F major 7. It comes out true, and in my head I hear Dad saying, That’s when you know.
And I know. I know, I know, I know.
Somehow that knowing rises out of my chest, through my throat, and out my mouth. The singing doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would.
“I’m from the grave out back
Holding my dad
Beneath a cross
And a layer of mud.
I’m from the way my mother cries
When she thinks about my father.
The way I try to make him proud
With each battle won.
I’m from feeling like I’ve failed
Each time I bury
Another son.”
There’s silence when I finish. Miss Reynolds takes a step forward. “Kate, that was …”
“Amazing!” Jane shouts. “That was amazing!”
And then the rest of the class starts clapping. Even Sofia. Even Marisa.
I’m sitting in that chair with my guitar on my lap waiting to wake up from this dream. But I don’t. Because it’s real. That bar chord was real. The singing was real. Everyday Magic is real.
At lunch, I walk into the cafeteria, thinking about Grammy and her rules of magic. Grammy said that magic happens when love becomes visible, when you give people something they can hold. But I think she was wrong about that, because some things you can’t hold, not really. Like a firm squeeze that says it’s okay, or a song that makes you feel better. Like a family that’s always, always a family no matter what. You can’t knit that, or cook it, or draw it, or write it. But all those things are magic.
And Jane gave me some.
I look around for her, and Brooklyn and Emma, but they must have switched tables. Sofia is already eating with Marisa. She gives me a small wave. I wave back. She doesn’t ask me to join them and I don’t want to. As I walk past, Marisa hands Sofia her favorite kind of granola bar, peanut butter chocolate chip. I wonder what kind of magic that will bring them.
Then I spot Jane and the other girls at a table by the window. Jane has her sketchbook out. I walk up to them and set my lunch bag down. “What are you drawing?”
Jane pushes the sketchbook toward me. “The trees in that orchard over there. I’d rather draw them with blossoms, but …” She shrugs, pulls the sketchbook back, and returns to drawing.
I sit down next to her, but I don’t say anything. There are too many words buzzing around in my head, and I’m not sure which should come out first.
Jane erases something, growls, and reaches into her pocket. She pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, reads it, and then shows it to me. “Did you know Michelangelo once said this?”
The paper reads, Genius is eternal patience.
I shake my head. “What does that mean?”
“My mom says it means that anything good comes with lots of practice and waiting for the right moment.” She taps her pencil against the paper and draws a few lines before erasing again. “I think maybe Michelangelo was full of it.”
I lean over to see the picture of the orchard trees again. “It looks pretty good to me.”
“I don’t want it to just look pretty good.” She closes the sketchbook and peers at me. “You did a really good job today.”
“Yeah,” says Emma. “It was awesome.”
Brooklyn nods. “It was even cooler than ninja George Washington … which is pretty cool.”
They all laugh.
“Thanks.”
Jane taps her tennis shoes together, one purple and one orange. “I’m glad you sang.”
“Me too.” I touch the pink hat in my sweatshirt pocket and wonder how on earth I can ever thank Jane for the magic she gave me.
“Is that the hat you pulled out during the presentation?” Jane asks, pointing. “Did you make that one, too?”
“No, my grandma did.”
She nods. “Are you going to wear it?”
“No, it’s …” I don’t know how to tell her about my dad and the magic, so I just say, “I don’t wear pink. Or, I didn’t. I don’t know anymore.”
“I wear pink,” says Jane.
I take the hat out of my pocket, look at Jane, and finally see her. Like she’s been in an old, fogged-up mirror all this time and I’ve just wiped away the steam. “I know. It was a silly tradition.”
“With Sofia?”
“Yeah.”
“Is the hat for her?”
I can’t help glancing to Sofia’s table, but it doesn’t hurt to see her anymore. “No. She has a new best friend. It’s for my dad.”
“A pink hat for your dad?” Jane asks.
Emma leans her head to the side like she’s trying to understand. Brooklyn stops braiding the bracelet she’s making and listens.
“When he was little he was scared, and my Grammy made the hats to help him feel better.” I run my fingers over the pink stitches. “He left. My dad. He was too sad to stay. And my grandma can’t remember things a lot of the time, not even how to knit anymore. Mom says one day she might forget me … forever.”
I don’t know why I tell them that. They hadn’t asked, but somehow I want Jane to know. And Brooklyn and Emma. All of them. I don’t want to carry that secret a second longer.
“I’m sorry,” Jane whispers.
“Me too.”
As I put the hat back in my pocket, it hits me. The perfect way to say thank you for the magic. “Can I come over to your house after school?” I ask Jane.
“Really?”
“If you still want me to.”
“What about your sister? Don’t you have to watch her?”
I freeze when I remember how I lied to Jane. You can’t be best friends with someone and lie to them about having a little sister. They’ll find out.
My voice shakes when I say, “I … don’t have a sister. I lied. I was nervous about what you would think about my grandma if I had to invite you to my house. I’m sorry.”
Jane chews on a strand of her hair for a few long seconds. I know she’s going to say she never wants to see me again.
But instead, she tells me, “My mom doesn’t really bake cookies. She buys them at the store and heats them up in the microwave and puts them on a plate and has an air freshener that smells like cookies. I lied, too. I’m sorry.”
Lying about cookies and lying about a sister seem like two totally different kinds of lies. But maybe there’s another part about Everyday Magic that Grammy got wrong. Maybe magic isn’t just given away and then a little bit comes back to you. Maybe magic is passed back and forth. I gave Jane magic with the hat. She gave me magic with that shoulder squeeze. I gave her magic when I asked if we could do something together after school. She gave me magic when she didn’t get mad at me for lying about having a sister.
We’ve been trading it back and forth for days. Because that’s what friends do. And that’s what magic is for.
“I’ll have to call my mom to make sure,” I say. “But I know she’ll say yes.”
“Brooklyn, Emma,” Jane says. “You guys should come too.”
“We can’t today,” says Emma. “Basketball practice.”
Brooklyn nods. “But maybe next time.”
“Yeah, next time.” Jane opens her sketchbook to her
picture of the orchard again. “There’s going to be lots of next times.”
I look from the sketchbook to the orchard to Jane, and I know she’s right.
Chapter 30
I’m super excited about going to Jane’s house, but there’s one thing I have to do first.
“When your mom picks us up, could we maybe stop by my house and then my dad’s apartment?”
We’re at our lockers after lunch. Jane carefully turns her dial. “Your dad? I thought he left.”
“I know where he lives.”
“You need to talk to him?”
“No. Just give him something.”
“I can ask my mom, but she’ll probably say yes. What are you giving him?”
I pass her the hat.
“Oh, yeah. Do you think it will work like when he was little?”
“I don’t know.”
She hands the hat back. “That’s okay. You have to try everything when it’s important, right?”
And suddenly, I’m a tree transplanted between orchards, and I can finally sink my roots down deep into the earth. I can finally feel at home again.
After school, Jane’s mom picks us up. First, she takes me to my house. I bolt inside, drop off my guitar, grab the shoebox full of notes from under my bed, and then run back to the van.
I can’t seem to get out when we get to Dad’s apartment, though. The box of letters is heavy on my lap. Sometimes it’s hard to know the right amount of love and the right amount of letting go.
“Is this the place?” Mrs. Chu finally asks.
I nod because my throat’s too scratchy to talk.
“I can go with you if you want,” says Jane.
“No,” I whisper. “I want to go alone.”
Jane nods. “Okay. Good luck.”
At the door to Dad’s building, I turn and wave. Mrs. Chu rolls down the window.
“We’ll wait here,” she calls.
I run up all three flights of stairs because the elevator is taking too long, and then tiptoe to his door. The numbers are still crooked. He’s probably inside lying on the bed, or sitting in his chair, looking at nothing.
I know then I don’t want to see him. And really, he doesn’t want to see me.
But he still needs a hat. I take it out of my pocket. It isn’t beautiful. Grammy dropped some stitches and there are bumps where she tried to pick them back up. It’s good enough for keeping out fears though.
I stare at the shoebox of letters in one hand and the hat in the other, wondering what Dad will think when he sees them. Will he understand what I’m giving him? What I’m trying to say?
I sit down, put the hat and shoebox on the floor, and open my backpack. All I need is some paper, but my fingers touch the orange notebook I’d given to Sofia. It’s the perfect solution.
I pull out the notebook, open it to the first page, and read the poem I wrote for Sofia.
Roses are red, violets are blue, write a poem in this notebook, because that’s what best friends do.
After tearing out the page, I start writing to Dad. The words pour out of me faster than a river after spring’s snowmelt.
Dear Dad,
I’m leaving you this hat Grammy made and a box of letters I wrote, because they’re the most magical things I have to give. Each one holds a little piece of me. A little bit of magic. Family is family, forever and always, no matter what.
Love,
Kate
P.S. I love you.
I close up the notebook, set it on the shoebox, then put the hat on top. There will be more knitted hats for Dad in the future, since he might need them, and I know how to knit now. But there won’t be any more letters. Because I can’t keep taking all my hopes and shoving them under my bed. Hope doesn’t belong in a shoebox.
When it’s important, you try everything. And now I have to trust that the magic will work and make … something happen. Perhaps one day, Dad will able to believe and then give.
After I’ve arranged everything outside his apartment, gentle as an almond blossom, sure as magic, I give three short knocks.
Just before running away, I think maybe I hear the sound of guitar chords floating through the door.
Maybe. Just maybe.
I make my way back down the three flights of stairs and out into the blinding, brilliant sunlight. With one last look at Dad’s building, I can’t help whispering something between a prayer and a wish for him.
“The magic is real. I promise.”
Author’s Note
Depression is a mental illness that doesn’t always look the same from person to person, and it can have several different treatments. If you or someone you love has depression, don’t be afraid to reach out. You can contact the SAMHSA helpline (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration) to get information about what treatment and community resources are available in your area. Call 800-662-HELP.
Dementia and Alzheimer’s are also extremely difficult for those experiencing them and for their caregivers. There is strength in asking for help. Call the Alzheimer’s Association helpline: 800-272-3900.
Acknowledgments
A book is a very special piece of magic, and this one had a lot of it along the way. Thank you to those who
Believed: First and foremost, thanks to Rob, who believed in me before I even believed in myself; to Jane, Max, and Tom, who always thought a book deal was around the corner; to my parents, for instilling a love of books and a work ethic that made anything seem possible, and to my sisters, Darci and Kim, who read this book early on, believed in it, and talked to me about it, even when life was incredibly hard. Thanks to Sarah Erickson, for being my first CP and seeing something special in my work; to Peggy Sheridan Jackson, who read the rewrite that changed everything and told me, “This is it.” Thanks to Emily Ungar and Jennifer Ray, for being my first fans, and to my Sisters of the Pen: Cindy Baldwin, Ashley Martin, and Jamie Pacton, for the strength that comes from sharing and believing in each other.
Gave: This book would not exist if it weren’t for Brenda Drake and her contest, Pitch Wars—thank you for giving me a second chance. To my mentors, Joy McCullough, Jessica Vitalis, and Rebecca Wells, thank you for giving more than was required, for taking on a book without reading it, putting me through my paces, and helping me create something beautiful. Thanks to Heather Truett, Rebekah Kritsch, Ellie Terry, Cindy Baldwin, Jamie Pacton, Heidi Stallman, Kit Rosewater, Cory Leonardo, Michael Mammay, Kat Hinkel, Julie Artz, Heather Murphy Capps, Shanna Rogers, Maria Mora and my Pitch Wars 2015 group, who have spent the last three years celebrating and commiserating together, and who helped me make a big decision; to Joanna Thatcher, Kayla McCartney, and Claudia Correa, for keeping my kids cared for and my house clean during the moments of high stress; to Isabel Davis and Kayla Rivera for your thoughts, expertise, and helping me finally understand Sofia and Marisa; and to Joan He, for helping Jane become more real and for writing her that beautiful poem. So many people gave me thoughtful critiques of my work. I’m sorry if I missed anyone.
Trusted: Thanks to Sarah Gerton, who pulled my book out of the slush and passed it along; to my agent, Elizabeth Harding, who never stopped believing, giving, and trusting through the whole process—I’m so glad I put my trust in you; to my editor, Rebecca Davis, who was able to see through the flaws to the very heart of what this book could be–I think you are full of a very special kind of magic. Thanks to the readers, for trusting me with your heart. Finally, and above all, thanks to God, for trusting me with this passion and inspiration and leading me here.
An Interview with Amanda Rawson Hill
Q. Where did the idea for Everyday Magic and the three rules come from? Did you just make it up? Is it real?
A. I’m not sure where the idea for Everyday Magic came from. When I was writing this story, I didn’t have much of a plan. I was getting to the point where I knew something big needed to happen that would be the “glue” of the book, but I still didn’t know what it was and I was gett
ing worried.
When I finally figured it out, it was late at night. I was in a car because we were driving cross-country to welcome my brother home from Africa. And I got to that conversation where I knew Grammy had to reveal something important, when all of a sudden my fingers typed, “There are three rules for Everyday Magic. The first is to believe that it’s real.”
I had to stop there and read that sentence again because it wasn’t in my brain until it was on the page. Suddenly, the other two rules came to my brain and I had to hurry and write them down. Over the next few days, I refined the rules to believe, give, trust. But I still wasn’t sure about them. Did I really believe that those rules could work Everyday Magic? If I was going to put them in a book as a way for someone to solve their problems, I wanted to make sure I believed them.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized I do believe them. And since finishing the book, I’ve had lots of opportunities to practice the three rules right here in my own neighborhood. And you know what? I’ve seen magic happen! Friendship, forgiveness, connection. It’s been wonderful.
Q. What kind of research did you do to portray Grammy’s dementia?
A. I got some wonderful insights from friends who had cared for family members with dementia, but I mostly drew on my memories of my grandpa’s Alzheimer’s Disease. The scene where Grammy teaches Kate to knit and says, “I’m losing it, aren’t I?” was inspired by a conversation I remember my grandpa having with my mom where he tried to explain to her what was going on and how he wouldn’t really be himself for much longer. I also added the scene where Grammy sits at the piano with Kate’s mom and whistles, in honor of my grandpa. I remember one night when we were visiting, he couldn’t read anymore (and I’m not sure if he was ever much of a singer), but my grandma started playing the piano and he sat next to her and whistled along.
In fact, my grandma started a weekly music therapy program at his adult daycare for other seniors struggling with Alzheimer’s and dementia. She continued it for several years after he passed away as well. The music of one’s youth is one of the things the brain can seem to remember even when it’s forgotten most everything else.
The Three Rules of Everyday Magic Page 14